SONGS  OF  VENICE. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ROBERT  LOU  DO  UN. 


A  nd  I  have  said  and  I  say  it  ever, 

As  the  years  go  on  and  the  'world goes  over, 

'  Twe)  e  better  to  be  content  and  cleve* 

In  tending  of  cattle  and  tossing  of  clover, 

In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  growing  of  grain, 

Than  a  strong  man  striving  for  wealth  and  gain; 

Be  even  as  kine  in  the  red-tipped  clover, 

For  they  lie  down  and  their  rests  are  rests. 

— ARIZONIAN. 


CLEVELAND.  O: 

WILLIAM  W.  WILLIAMS, 

MDCCCLXXXV. 


COPYRIGHT,  1885. 
WILLIAM  W.  WILLIAMS. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


TO 

MY  FATHER 
WITH  DEEP  AFFECTION, 

I  DEDICATE 

THIS  EARLY  OFFSPRING 

OF  THE  MUSE. 


CONTENTS. 


PRELUDE. 

SONGS  OF  VENICE  : 

THE  SERENADE 13 

THE  DREAM 18 

A  REVERIE 21 

THE  GONDOLIER 24 

THOU  BRIDE  OF  THE  OCEAN 27 

SHE  SLEEPS  UPON  THE  SEA 28 

SIBYLLINE 30 

POEMS  OF  LOVE  : 

ANNA  BELLE 36 

DAPHNE 39 

I  WOULD  BE  FREE 5° 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 52 

'NEATH  THE  WILLOWS 55 

DRIFTING 60 

A  PORTRAIT 63 

LONGING 65 

A  GREETING  FROM  THE  SOUTH 68 

BIRDS  OF  NIGHT 70 

FADED  ROSES 74 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

SONNETS  : 

HOPE 79 

HELLAS 80 

HELLAS 81 

HELLAS 82 

APHRODITE 83 

VIRGINIA 84 

VIRGINIA 85 

MONTECELLO 86 

CHIPPEWA 87 

CHIPPEWA 88 

CHIPPEWA 89 

SALUTATION 90 

CONSTANCY 91 

A  TRIBUTE 92 

You  BID  ME  SING 93 

THE  PAST 94 

BEAUTY 95 

RESOLUTION 96 

HEBE 97 

HEBE 98 

No  LOVE  is  LOST 99 

LOVE  IMMORTAL •  100 

EMERSON 101 

MOIR.S 102 

YOUTH'S  LOVE 103 

FLIGHT  OF  YEARS ' 104 

EPIGRAM 105 

APOLLO  SCORNED.  ...                                                               . .  106 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

SYLVAN: 

ELYWOOD 109 

GATHERING  ARBUTUS • 116 

THE  ADVENT  OF  SUMMER 122 

THE  POET'S  PATH 123 

NATURE'S  FREEDOM  125 

*MORN 127 

NATURE  HEALETH 130 

LIGHT 134 

OCCASIONAL  PIECES  : 

TITUS  LIVIUS— A  REQUIEM 139 

AMBITION 145 

THE  FALLEN 146 

ALICE 151 

MEMORIAL  DAY 154 

BYRON 157 

BANQUET  SONG 159 

NORMIA 161 

THANKSGIVING 163 

THE  FATE  OF  TASSO 165 


PRELUDE. 

If  in  this  early  flight  of  tuneless  song 

I  leave  the  beaten  track,  where  oft  and  long, 

The  feet  of  countless  pilgrims  trod  before, 

And  roam  through  meadows,  by  the  shadowy  shore 

Of  woodland  streams,  o'erarched  by  lacing  limbs, 

That  e'en  in  midday  fiercest  sunlight  dims ; 

Where  cattle  stray  in  low,  cool  alder  swamps, 

Drinking  from  weird  and  willowed  river-damps  ; 

By  mountain  tarns  and  their  steep  cataracts 

Far-hiding  where  no  vulgar  eye  attracts ; 

In  caverned  rocks,  deep-sounding  to  the  tread, 

Where  Echo  leads,  forgetful  of  all  dread 

Mysterious  sounds  that  follow  in  her  way, — 

Till  lost,  bewilder'd,  far  from  genial  day, 

I  fain  would  hasten  to  the  light  again, 

Content  to  walk  by  down  and  reedy  fen, — 

Seeking  no  more  the  mysteries  that  woo 

The  curious  mind  away  from  nature  true 

But  to  perplex  and  taint  with  vague  distrust, 


IO  PRELUDE. 

The  free-born  spirit  that  would  'scape  its  rust, 
And  sing  in  simple  song  the  thoughts  that  rise 
From  feeling  deep  or  forms  that  charm  the  eyes — 
Perchance  a  handful  of  wild  flowers  I'll  gather, 
Heedless  of  color,  perfume,  odor:   rather, 
A  mingled  chain  of  daffodils  and  clover, 
Chosen  at  random  by  a  thoughtless  rover, 
In  idle  moments  loitering  through  the  fields 
In  summer  weather,  caring  for  naught  that  yields 
More  than  the  pleasure  of  the  passing  hour 
And  twilight  skies  that  call  him  to  love's  bower. 

I  would  not  more;  ambition's  siren  voice 
Falls  harsh  and  hollow  with 'no  charm  or  choice, 
But  hither  go  where  fancy  leads  the  way 
Though  all  condemn  my  wanton  minstrelsy. 


Songs  of  Venice. 


THE  SERENADE. 


'Tis  sweet  to  hear 

At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 
By  distance  mellowed  o'er  the  water's  sweep. 

— Don  /uan,  Can.  I. 


'Twas  the  midnight's  soft  hour,  and  the  silence  of 

Venice 

Unbroke  was  by  tumult,  the  sounds  that  dismiss 
From  the  mind  its  soft  musings  that  flow  on  like  a 

river, 

Unchecked  in  its  channel  in  beauty  forever; 
While  each  bend  and  each  sway  in  the  course  it  pursues 
Gives  new  pleasure,  new  transport,   new  beauties    it 

strews 
'Long  the  fens  that  we  follow. 

'Twas  the  midnight's  soft  hour; 
Far  away  in  dark  Santa  Maria's  high  tower 
The  bell  tolled  for  mass,  and  the  monk  counted  low 
His  beads  in  dull  silence:    the  chants'  solemn  flow 


14  SONGS   OF    VENICE. 

Disturbed  not  his  prayers,   for  the  shades  down  in 

Hades 
Were  as  far  from  his  thoughts  as  the   damsels  of 

Cadiz. 

The  lights  at  long  intervals  gleamed  on  the  water 
But  palely,  for  through  the  deep  sky  ever  brighter, 
The    stars    shone,    and    moon    in    its    fair   waxing 

crescent, 

Silvered  turret  and  temple  and  palace  and  casement 
With  strange  light. 

The  splash  of  a  light  guarded  oar 
Alone  broke  the  stillness  the  bells  broke  before — 
But  had  ceased — as  the  boat  softly  stole  through  the 

shade 

Unreached  by  the  moonlight  that  sought  to  invade, 
And  near  now  approached  to  the  place  where  his 

love 
Slept  in  beauty:   unknown  was    the  passion   which 

strove 

In  the  breas't  of  the  gallant  who  glided  beneath 
Her  high,  open  window.     The  last  carnival  wreath 
Still  hung  from  the  balcony,  drooping  and  sere, 
Where  soft  hands  had  pressed  it  in  leaning  more  near 


THE    SERENADE.  15 

To  the  bright  laughing  throng  in  their  close  crowded 

boats, 
Filled  with  youth  and  with  pleasure. 

Now  softly  the  notes 

Of  his  prelude  responded  the  touch  of  his  fingers, 
As  expectancy  dwells  on  the  music  that  lingers 
A  moment  behind  it,  till  full  on  the  ear 
Blend  the  voice  and  the  lute-chords,  sweet,  plaintive 

and  clear. 


O,  fairer  far  than  sirens  sleeping 

Upon  the  silent,  waveless  ocean, 

I  know  my  dearest  love  now  waking, 

In  every  charm,  in  every  motion; 

Will  she  not  come  to  me, 

I  plead  now  so  earnestly  ; 

Come  ere  my  true  heart  with  fondness  is  breaking  ? 


II. 


Does  she  not  list  to  the  song  I'm  singing? — 
She  dreams  in  her  soft  and  silken  bower, 


1 6  SONGS   OF    VENICE. 

Will  she  not  heed  the  love  I'm  bringing? — 
I  sigh  for  her  smile  like  a  drooping  flower; 
Can  she  now  refuse  it  me, 
Know  not  my  heart's  sympathy  ? — 

Ah,  faintly  these  chords  can  tell  of  its  yearning. 


Ill 


Shall  beauty  sleep  while  love  is  pining, 

And  tells  its  woes  to  listless  air? 
Shall  beauty  dream  while  love  is  chafing, 
Unnoticed  by  the  loved  and  fair? 
Swiftly  I  glide  away, 
Love  disdained  cannot  stay, 
Ah,  harsh  are  the  chords  when  the  spirit  is  sinking. 

Scarce  had  the  last  sounds  of  his  quivering  lute 
Died  in  silence,  his  soft,  pleading  voice  again  mute, 
When  a  white  robed  figure  stole  quick  to  the  window 
And  taking  one  glance  at  the  gallant  below, 
Pushed  aside  with  one  hand  the  antique  portiere, 
With  the  other — her  arm,  soft,  dimpled  and  bare 
Thrust  beyond,  but  in  shadow — threw  in  his  boat 


THE  SERENADE.  \J 

A  handful  of  roses ;  a  red  one,  which  smote 
His  cheek  as  it  passed,  her  warm  lips  had  pressed : 
And  the  kiss  in  that  moment  she  gave  him  unguessed, 
Was  not  wasted,  for  still  in  the  fragrance  he  found, 
And  the  touch,  soft  caressing,  more  joy  than  is  bound 
In  roses  alone,  though  from  deep  Persian  skies 
Drop  the  dew  on  their  petals  that  flash  like  the  eyes 
Of  the  winsomest  maidens  that  wander  at  eve 
Through  the  palm-groves  of  Emir. 

He  could  scarcely  conceive 
Such  fortune  was  his,  such  rich  Argosies, 
In  love's  own  sweet  language ;  and  looking  up  sees 
Her  white  arms,  a  gleam  of  her  bosom  the  shade 
And  the  curtain  concealed  not ;    a  smile  that  repaid 
All  his  warmest  devotion  ;  yet  the  vision  had  fled 
Ere  a  moment  her  beauty  his  charmed  sight  had  fed. 


1 8  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 


THE  DREAM. 

She  is  dreaming,  dreaming  sweetly, 
That  soft  siren  of  the  islands, 

On  the  breast  of  Italy, 

On  her  dying  fame-washed  strands. 

See  the  moon-light  gently  floating 
O'er  the  wave  and  broken  walls, 

At  some  gloomy  shadow  gloating, 
On  the  Doge's  lonely  halls. 

Silent  save  the  whispering  night-wind, 
Creeping  'long  the  silv'ry  streets, 

And  its  murmur  soft  confin'd 
Where  the  wall  the  water  meets. 

Catch  her  accents,  she  is  dreaming, 
Yes,  again  she's  with  the  past, 

In  the  days  when  fame  was  streaming 
O'er  the  seas  from  every  mast. 


THE  DREAM.  1 9 

Now  her  domes,  her  gilded  steeples, 

With  their  former  lustre  shine, 
And  they  dwell — the  ancient  peoples — 

In  this  home  of  beauty's  shrine : 

When  the  Orient  had  yielded 

All  the  splendor  of  its  arts, 
And  its  gold  and  pearl  had  circled 

Pride  and  pomp  in  all  her  marts. 

See  yon  pageant  floating  proudly, 

Torches  gleaming  on  the  waves, 
And  the  people  cheering  loudly 

Hail  it  with  the  captive  slaves. 

For  her  warriors  now  are  bringing 

Spoils  of  victory  once  more, 
And  a  conquered  crown  they're  flinging 

At  her  feet,  and  robes  she  wore. 

Nations  all  are  homage  paying 

To  this  empress  of  the  sea, 
And  her  charms  are  now  subduing 

Each  to  her  own  mastery. 


2O  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 

And  to-night  the  triumph  crowns, 
As  her  fleet  returning  home, 

Greets  them  with  gay  banquet  rounds 
'Neath  the  Doge's  palace  dome. 

They  yield,  the  far-off — but  she's  waking, 

Dreary,  sad  and  desolate, 
Bowing  servile  to  a  king, 

Weak,  submissive  to  her  fate. 

Ah,  why  should  beauty  ever  be, 
The  Nemesis  of  its  own  fall, 

And  humbled  pride  and  heraldry 
Survive  alone  the  death  of  all  ? 


A    REVERIE.  21 


A  REVERIE. 

Beneath  the  portals  of  Saint  Mark  I  stood — 

That  wondrous  relic  of  a  perished  art — 

And  watched  the  sun  set  like  a  crimson  wave 

Bathe  all  the  ruins  of  this  noiseless  mart 

With  a  new  splendor,  dim  and  spirit-like, 

Until  the  city  seemed  an  apparition 

Of  her  dead,  lovely  self,   rising  from  out 

The  waveless  waters  with  her  ancient  pride, 

Mocking  imagination;  as  a  love 

Long  lost  will  haunt  our  dreams  in  fairest  shape, 

And  leave  us  wretched  ere  the  morn  has  come. 

The  coast-line  waned,  then  faded  from  my  sight, 
And  all  was  dim  and  formless  far  and  near ; 
And  by  and  by  the  great  moon  rose  above 
The  broken  housetops,  and  once  more  the  streets 
Were  filled  with  pleasure-loving,  thoughtles  throngs 


22  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 

Light  gondolas,  and  the  more  stately  barge, 

And  barks  with  many  colored  sails  that  lay 

Motionless  upon  the  water,  their  canvas  drooped 

About  their  masts  that  the  still  evening  stirred  not. 

And  as  a  I  listened,  lo,  a  song  broke  forth — 

A  single  voice,  the  words  inaudible 

By  distance,  and  that  mellow  tongue  that  hates 

All  harshness — soon  another  caught  the  strain 

And  bore  it  on,  and  then  another  answered  ; 

And  thus  the  night  wore  on,  so  musical 

And  sweet,  so  like  her  former  days  of  joy, 

That  for  a  while  I  could  not  but  forget 

That  Venice  was  a  slave,  and  many  stripes 

Had  bruised  her  fair,  soft  shoulders,  till  the  marks 

Spoke  their  own  tale  of  woe,  and  cried  for  pity . 

A  dark  robed  figure,  veiled  and  lowly  bent, 
Brushed  by  me  and  my  dreamy  reverie  broke. 
I  watched  her  enter  in  and  kneel  down  close 
Beside  the  altar  on  the  cold,  bare  stone, 
And  deep  sobs  shook  her  bosom  as  she  poured 
Her  sorrows  in  the  ear  of  Him  who  hears 
The  lowliest,  for  she  had  lost  her  son, 


A  REVERIE.  23 

Whom  she  had  loved  more  than  her  waning  life. 

I  turned  away  and  felt  my  eyelids  fill, 

And  like  the  exiles  from  fair  Babylon 

In  a  strange  land,  I  wept  and  could  not  sing ; 

For  I  remembered  all  that  she  had  been, 

And  never  more  could  be,  while  time  shall  last. 


24  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 


THE  GONDOLIER. 


In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 

—  Chtidc  Harold  Can.  IV. 


Can  Tasso's  songs  be  silent  now  ? 
Me  thought  the  gondolier  would  vow 
Eternal  homage  to  their  flow. 

Yet,  as  he  guides  his  graceful  bark 
Through  noiseless  streets  he  sings,  but  hark  ! 
His  thoughts  are  distant,  gloomy,  dark. 

He  sings  of  Venice  in  other  days  ; 
Her  power,  her  beauty  fills  his  lays, 
Nor  of  his  age  he  tunes  the  praise. 

He  sings  in  snatches,  plaintive,  low, 
Nor  merriment  his  accents  know, 
Yet  music's  saddest  charm  they  show. 


THE  GONDOLIER.  25 

And  like  a  phantom  gliding  onward, 

How  little  does  his  boat  accord 

With  its  gay  freight  and  winsome  lord. 

As  floating  'neath  the  arches  crumbling, 
And  ruined  palaces  now  tumbling 
Into  the  sea  with  speedy  humbling. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  sad  reflection 
Swift-crowding  on  the  mind's  dejection, 
The  softening  power  of  recollection  ! 

For  she  to  him  was  like  a  maiden 
Whom  youth  and  gayety  did  gladden, 
Nor  care  nor  sorrow  ever  sadden. 

Who  dwelt  in  mirth's  seductive  rounds, 
And  followed  pace  with  music's  sounds, 
Where  dance  and  luxury  abounds: 

Until  o'erpowered  with  joy  and  sleep, 
And  glee  no  more  her  revels  keep, 
She  sinks  to  rest  upon  the  deep. 


26  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 

Ages  of  glory  have  passed  away, 
The  gilded  boats  with  color's  play, 
Yet  he  alone  survives  the  day, 

And  in  his  sable  home  abides — 
'Neath  the  Rialto  still  he  glides— 
The  graceful  gallant  of  the  tides. 


THOU  BRIDE  OF  THE  OCEAN. 


THOU  BRIDE  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

O,  city  of  Adria's  murmuring  sea, 
What  fond  recollections  cling  ever  to  thee ! 
O,  sad  are  the  thoughts  thy  beauty  dispelled 
Thou  home    of   the    lovely    where    art   long    has 

dwelled ! 

Still  sleep  in  thy  beauty  wrapped  evej  in  fame, 
O,    whisper,  breathe  gently  thy  ever  loved  name — 

Still  sleep,  sleep  gently  on — 

I  sigh  not  for  fortune,  the  world  though  it  blame, 
I  love  thee  thou  bride  of  the  ocean. 


28  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 


SHE  SLEEPS  UPON  THE  SEA. 


She  sleeps,  she  sleeps  upon  the  sea, 

Beautiful  Venice  alone, 
Dreaming  of  happy  days  when  free, 

Sighing  for  pleasures  gone. 

Hushed  are  the  waves,  her  pillow  light, 

The  wind  has  borne  afar — 
From  Afric's  coast,  spray  gleaming  white- 

Upon  her  silent  bar. 

In  sadness,  now,  she  lightly  sleeps, 

Her  mantle  shorn  of  beauty, 
Her  tresses  scattered  and  she  weeps 

Lamenting  her  decree. 


SHE  SLEEPS  UPON  THE  SEA.  29 

Soft  ripples  from  a  distant  shore 

Fall  lightly  at  her  feet, 
Her  rest  is  sacred,  and  her  lore, 

Shines  though  at  setting,  sweet. 

O,  is  she  weary  resting  there 

In  silent  loveliness, 
Or  is  she  thinking  of  the  rare 

Fame  of  her  past  greatness  ? 

Lone,  wrapped  in  beauteous  mystery, 

Nor  waking  with  the  day, 
She'll  ever  sleep  in  her  frailty — 

For  fled  is  her  life's  ray. 


3O  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 


SIBYLLINE. 

From  earliest  youth,  when  first  the  pictured  page 

Chained  my  young  eyes  continual, 
Thy  domes  and  spires  would  all  my  thoughts  engage, 

And  catch  my  fancy  in  their  thrall; 
Charming  the  sight  like  unbound  maiden  tress 

When  gold-hued,  glistening  in  its  fall, 
Half  veiling  charms  when  wanton  looks  transgress — 

Dream  city  of  unearthly  loveliness ! 

And  wert  thou  like  the  Cyprian  goddess  born 

Of  sea-foam's  softness  mid  the  isles — 
Drifting  to  Italy  in  the  sweet  morn — 

And  gifted  with  the  secret  wiles 
That  slave  all  hearts  that  dare  to  look  on  thee, 

With  passion's  glance,  that  knows  no  liberty, 
And  clings  to  thy  fair  palace  piles 

As  to  a  love  begun  in  infancy  ? 


SIBYLLINE.  31 

What  though  thy  walls  are  blackened  now  with  time, 
Thy  power  usurped  by  foreign  hands, 

Can  aught  rob  thee  of  thy  own  page  sublime, 
Thy  glory  give  to  other  lands  ? 

The  heart  shall  be  thy  sacred  history, 
And  fill  thy  annals  with  such  poesy 

As  springs  from  love  in  its  fair  prime — 

Weaving  romance  from  thy  deep  mystery. 

And  if  the  years  deal  with  unhallowed  harshness, 

And  the  blue  sea  rise  o'er  thy  ruin, 
Thou  shalt  not  lapse  into  forgetfulness, 

Or  future  homage  fail  to  win  ; 
To  pass  from  sight  is  not  oblivion 

Save  when  no  worthy  deed  has  e'er  been  done, 
Nor  arm  been  raised  amid  the  din 

Of  earth's  dissensions,  quelling  strife  begun. 


Thy  beauty  cannot  with  thy  forms  decay ; 

It  is  a  thing  apart  from  substance, 
And  will  defy  time  and  its  sure  essay 

To  bury  all  'neath  its  advance, 


32  SONGS  OF  VENICE. 

As  long  as  art,  romance  and  poesy 

Shall  o'er  our  minds  and  hearts  hold  tender  sway ; 
And  when  these  can  no  more  enhance 

Our  lives,  'tis  fit  that  all  should  pass  away. 


Poems  of  Love. 


As  long  as  passion  has  a  part  in  life, 
And  pride  and  envy,  jealousy  and  strife, 
Usurp  the  higher  instincts  of  the  heart, 
In  vain  no  poet  sings  his  humblest  part. 

Life  is  illumined  by  the  glow  within  ; 

Love  is  that  light,  and  rythmic  words  have  been 

In  every  age  the  noblest  form  it  wears ; 

Nor  priest,  nor  creed,  such  joy  the  soul  e'er  bears. 


36  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


ANNA  BELLE. 

Bright  as  the  moon-light  when  it  sleeps 

Upon  the  star-lit,  tranquil  deep ; 
Soft  as  the  evening  when  it  creeps 

From  shadowy  regions  of  the  East ; 
Fair  as  the  dawn  when  lingering  first 

Upon  the  topmost  mountain  peak  ; 
Sweet  as  the  songs  that  ever  burst 

From  happy  hearts  their  love  thus  speak. 

A  form  voluptuous,  yet  light 

As  mist  dispelled  by  morning  ray, 
And  hair  that  seemed  its  beauty  bright 

Had  caught,  then  lingered  there  to  play 
Amid  the  shower  of  gold  that  fell 

Upon  her  neck  of  driven  snow, 
And  swelling  breast  where  ever  dwell 

In  purity,  love's  warmest  glow. 


ANNA  BELLE.  37 

No  wild  gazelle  upon  the  hills — 

Or  bending  down  with  timid  grace 
Upon  the  bank  of  forest  rills 

To  drink — when  it  espies  the  face 
Of  some  lone  hunter  of  the  wood 

With  levelled  gun,  never  displayed 
More  eloquence  of  single  look 

Than  in  her  soft  blue  eyes  arrayed. 

Languidly  beautiful,  yet  shone 

With  all  that  fascinating  charm 
Which  marked  the  glance  of  hers  alone, 

The  bravest  heart  they  could  disarm 
If  but  a  single  glance  were  given — 

And  at  her  mercy  then  it  lay — 
For  Eros  had  his  arrow  driven, 

That  she  with  his  pierced  heart  might  play. 

You  should  have  seen  that  form  where  grace, 

In  all  its  beauty  seemed  to  dwell 
Immaculate,  for  that  famed  race 

In  sunny  Orient  can  tell 
Of  no  one  fairer  when  the  shades 


38  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Of  evening  gather  o'er  the  wave, 
And  on  the  Ganges,  India's  dusky  maids 
Come  forth,  their  wondrous  forms  to  lave. 

No  more  you  wondering  ask  me  why 
My  fondest  love  to  her  I  give, 

Or  why  the  passion  does  not  die  ; 
As  well  attempt,  then  bid  it  live, 

The  fragrance  from  the  rose  to  separate. 


39 


DAPHNE. 

Deep  in  a  cool  and  lone  Thesslian  wood, 
So  still  and  voiceless  in  its  every  mood 
That  contemplation  came  a  guest  unhid 
And  fashioned  forms  from  mortal  vision  hid; 
The  god  of  light  and  song  at  evening  roved 
And  woke  the  measures  that  his  fingers  loved, 
Since  caught  by  man  and  fashioned  at  his  will, 
To  charm  all  hearts  and  coldest  natures  thrill. 

Slow  were  his  steps,  for  thoughts  of  deep  intent 
Seemed  fetters  in  the  path  his  way  was  bent ; 
The  twittering  birds,  the  startled  stags'  swift  flight 
Aroused  him  not  nor  claimed  his  downward  sight ; 
The  trampled  flowers  died  sighing  to  the  sound 
His  wandering  fingers  heedlessly  had  found, 
Like  wind  o'er  the  ^Eolian  strings  at  night, 
Stealing  through  lattice  in  a  shy  affright, 
Murmurs  weird  melody  in  some  high  tower 


4O  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Where  Persian  maid  sleeps  in  her  star-lit  bower, 
And  hears  not  its  complainings  while  she  dreams 
Of  love  and  beauty  that  all  real  seems  ; 
So  he  while  musing  on  his  mission  high — 
How  he  had  come  from  fair  Olympus  nigh, 
To  man  from  gods,  and  all  that  he  had  given 
To  elevate  the  mind  and  heart  earth-driven — 
To  banish  ignorance  and  fill  the  soul 
With  perfect  light  that  knows  no  human  goal, 
And  leaps  beyond  the  confines  of  dull  sense 
In  realms  ideal  to  find  recompense. 

His  thoughts  were  of  earth's  creatures,  but  no  part 

Nor  portion  of  them  he ;  in  lofty  art 

And  poesy  and  song,  alone  he  stood 

Supreme  conservator,  and  yet  he  would 

That  he  might  win  the  undying  love  of  her 

Whose  home  was  in  the  ever  shadowy  river, 

Where  the  Erotas  flows  through  Tempe's  vale 

Where  naught  molests  or  could  with  harm  assail 

The  sacred  muses  in  their  varied  rounds 

Of  mirth  and  song,  while  wood  and  hill  resounds 

With  music  wild  and  choruses  led  by 


DAPHNE.  41 

Terpsichore,  when  rays  of  daylight  die 
Beyond  the  purple-wreathed  Cyclades, 
And  soft  delights  give  pause  to  stern  decrees. 

These  Daphne  saw  when  lured  from  her  retreat, 
All  wondering  at  the  merry,  cadenced  feet, 
And  sounds  more  soft  and  witching  than  the  shell 
Of  Nereus  in  his  deep,  dark  ocean  cell, 
Wakes  for  the  nymphs. 

One  morn  before  the  light 
Had  risen  high,  full  on  his  startled  sight — 
Tripping  o'er  dew-gemmed  flowers — this  being  came, 
But  for  the  moment ;  ere  her  sweetest  name 
The  god  pronounced,  she  fled  through  glist'ning  leaves 
Of  low-hung  branches  that  the  vision  cleaves 
Not ;  lost  she  was  to  his  wrapt,  eager  sight 
And  ravished  h"eart,  and  standing  in  this  plight, 
Afar  he  heard  her  rustling  steps  away, 
Die  fainter  and  still  fainter  in  the  gray, 
Dull  mists  of  morn. 

Ah,  me,  how  little  seemed 
His  arts  divine  when  she  for  whom  he  dreamed 


42  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

With  ceaseless  yearning,  never  moment  stayed 
When  to  his  eyes  her  form  was  once  betrayed  ; 
While  disappointment  kindled  that  hot  fire, 
Which,  ever  burning  with  renewed  desire, 
In  naught  is  quenched  except  satiety — 
But  such  a  joy  to  him  could  never  be. 

In  words  like  these,  complaining  oft  had  spoke: 
O,  Daphne,  fairest  maid  that  ever  woke 
The  slumb'ring  passion  in  a  god-like  heart, 
Gladly  would  I  e'er  share  thy  lowly  part, 
And  leave  the  portals  of  Elysian  light, 
If  thou  stay  with  me,  loveliest  earthly  sprite — 
So  shy,  evading,  vanishing  away, 
Fleet  as  the  golden  shafts  of  dying  day, 
When  night  broods  sullenly  above  the  world 
And  all  is  shorn  of  light,  in  darkness  hurl'd  ; — 
So  in  my  soul  when  thou  forsakest  me, 
Pining,  sighing,  for  thy  sweet  company. 

But  still  she  would  not  hear  his  amorous  prayers, 
Nor  stay  her  steps,  lest  falling  in  the  snares 
Of  love's  entanglement,  no  more  returned 


DAPHNE.  43 

She  with  that  peace  by  maidens  higher  prized 

Than  else  in  life — her  perfect  chastity ; 

For  Eros  had  ordained  unfeelingly 

That  she  should  never  know  of  passion's  thrill — 

Its  swift  and  fatal  thraldom  of  the  will 

That  yielding  once,  forever  lost  restraint 

O'er  mad  desire  of  which  to  taste  is  taint. 

And  now  this  roused  love  unsatisfied, 
Intuitive  had  led  him  there  beside 
The  stream  where  fair  young  Daphne  first  had  given 
That  deep  delight,  which  since,  could  know  no  heaven 
But  her  embrace.      Ah !  melancholy  fate, 
That  should  for  this  unyielding  maid  await, 
Far  from  all  help,  and  was  there  nothing  left 
But  she  should  be  thus  of  her  life  bereft  ? 
The  god  has  paused,  and  list !  what  melody 
Is  this  that  greets  his  senses?     Can  it  be 
Of  earth,  that  one  of  god-like  power  should  seem 
All  uncontrolled  as  waking  from  a  dream  ? — 
A  dream  in  which  one  clasps  a  shadow-form, 
And  kisses  lips  imaginate,  in  warm 
And  wild,  impassioned,  fancied  ecstacy ; 


44  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Then  quickly  waking  to  reality, 
Finds  bending  o'er  his  couch,  gazing  the  while, 
That  being  who  had  blessed  with  sweetest  smile 
And  warm  caress,  his  visioned  happiness. 
So  he  when  roused  from  meditativeness, 
Dream-like  and  real  to  deluded  sense, 
Found  Daphne  there — and  all  the  vague  suspense 
Of  love ;   the  image  that  his  mind  had  wrought 
Of  her  unseen,  lay  shattered,  and  seemed  naught 
Beside  her  matchless,  glowing  self  incarnate, 
While  all  the  air  around  now  seemed  vibrate 
With  melody  ;  sometimes  in  murmurs  lost 
Too  faint  for  eager  ear  though  list'ning  most 
Attentively ;  sometimes  in  wild,  weird  swells, 
And  echoing  like  laughter  through  the  dells 
Where  naiads  sport  and  splash  the  cooling  spray 
Of  mountain  streams  in  their  light,  wanton  play. 
And  there  she  sat  upon  the  shady  bank 
Close  by  the  river;  near  and  far  the  rank 
Wild  flowers  grew  in  sweet  profusion,  and 
These  she  had  gathered,  clasped  within  her  hand, 
Mingling  their  fragrance,  and  their  colors  twined 
Together  indiscriminate.     To  bind 


DAPHNE.  45 

Her  hair — save  with  the  flowers — no  thought  had 

given, 

But  framed  her  face  like  plumage  of  the  raven, 
Falling  in  ebon  coils  beyond  the  curves 
Of  her  small,  tapering  zone,    which   naught  confines 
Now  in  her  still  unseen  abandonment — 
Engaged  the  while  in  innocent  content. 
Fallen  was  the  snowy  peplos  from  the  swell 
Of  her  full,  maiden  breast  ;  as  careless  fell 
Her  form  upon  the  grass  ;  free  were  her  feet 
From  sandals,  and  her  limbs  seemed  fair  and  fleet 
As  Dian's  when  the  chase  her  thoughts  engage, 
And  love  knows  not  her  tender  vassalage. 
Sometimes  she  bent  low  to  the  mirrored  stream. 
Narcissus  like,  and  saw  that  heavenly  dream 
Of  love — herself — glassed  in  the  silent  surface. 
But  she  knew  not  that  it  was  beauty,  place 
Was  all  to  her,  and  untaught  pleasure,  joy 
That  springs,  when  life  knows  no  alloy 
From  nature's  freedom.      Had  she  known  the  forms 
Shadowed  beneath  her  were  the  fatal  charms 
That  lured  the  sun-god  to  her  lone  retreat, 
Love  would  have  answered  beauty,  and  defeat 


46  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Would  not  have  crowned  the  passion  that  had  driven 
His  acts  to  violence,  if  pitying  heaven 
Unheeding  her,  has  staid  the  kindly  power 
That  changed  the  maid  to  an  undying  flower. 
Soft :  now,  while  she  with  arms  upraised  and  hands 
Clasped  o'er  her  head  ;  see,  through  the  rippling  bands 
Of  her  dark  hair,  the  pearliest  shoulders  gleam  ; 
The  smiles  that  play  upon  her  red  lips  seem 
Of  beauty  the  perfection  ;  but  as  free 
From  passion  as  the  flower  that  lonely, 
Amid  the  Alpine  height's  eternal  snows, 
Blushes  and  fades  though  no  eye  ever  knows 
Its  presence,  and  no  sweet  and  pure  delight 
Gives  its  faint  fragrance — for  a  touch  were  blight. 
All  this  she  saw  as  swift  the  placid  stream 
Mimicked  each  movement ;  who  could  ever  deem 
She  felt  no  thrill,  nor  knew  the  power  that  dwelt 
Within  herself,  nor  all  the  ill  she  dealt 
Upon  her  lover  most  divine. 

But  hush ! 

A  step  steals  softly  through  the  grasses  lush, 
So  stealthily,  that  she  with  play  absorbed 


47 


Knew  not  the  god  looked  on  her  form  disrobed. 

And  still  she  heard  not  till  the  careless  strings 

Of  his  harp,  fatal,  branch-caught,  loudly  flings 

Its  harshest  dissonance  upon  her  ear. 

O,  who  could  tell  the  terror,  deadly  fear, 

That  held  her,  though  unwilling,  to  the  spot, 

And  all  but  her  nude  loveliness  forgot? 

She  could  not  flee  thus,  but  her  prayer  was  heard 

By  her  who  guardian  is,  and  never  barred 

Her  ears  against  cries,  of  dangered  chastity: 

O,  save  me!  Dian  save  me!  who  can  stay 

The  god's  strong  passion  and  the  roused  wrath 

Stung  by  disdain  of  qualities  that  hath 

All  minds  led  captive  ;    for  no  fault  of  mine 

Has  forced  me  now,  this  lofty  love  decline. 

What  punishment  is  this  that  ever  closed 

The  springs  of  feeling  while  my  beauty  soared, 

Surpassing  mortals,  till  the  envious  god 

Of  love  sent  this  dire  vengeance,  and  has  trod 

All  passion  from  my  heart  ?     I  cannot  love, 

'Tis  hateful ;  though  it  seems  none  ever  strove 

Against  this  high  divinity.      Ah,  wo 


48  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Is  me,  who  cannot  this  slight  gift  bestow, 
And  yielding,  stay  my  fate  ! 

Thus  piteously 

She  cried,  in  wild,  despairing  agony, 
And  raised  on  high  her  supplicating  eyes 
Pleading  relief  from  the  unclouded  skies. 
Ere  the  last  words  had  left  her  pallid  lips, 
The  tender  leaves  of  laurel  from  the  tips 
Of  her  soft  fingers,  sprang  ;  while  from  her  feet 
The  grappling  roots  shot  downward  as  to  meet 
The  earth's  moist  mold  ;  and  what  had  lately  been, 
Of  all  earth-born,  more  nearly  the  akin 
Of  lovely  Aphrodite,  now  assumed 
The  vernal  form  that  her  sweet  life  entombed 
Forever. 

Then,  with  feelings,  deep,  intense, 
The  god  made  vows  that  future  recompense 
All  time  should  pay  her,  and  the  leaves  henceforth 
Should  crown  alone  the  man  of  highest  worth. 
The  scaly  trunk  then  fondly  did  embrace, 
While  pitying  tear-drops  bathed  his  upturned  face, 


DAPHNE. 

And  Daphne  wept  a  fragrant  shower  of  dew 
To  see  the  grief  that  would  her  fate  undo. 
Alas !   Now  saved  she  was,  but  martyr  still 
To  modesty  and  virtue,  yet  such  ill 
Were  better  far  than  life  with  shame's  hid  face 
And  youth's  light  merged  in  dark  disgrace. 

Now  as  I  ponder  on  this  story  told, 
The  mist  that  gathers  o'er  a  fable  old 
Seems  rising,  and  I  read  a  deeper  sense 
Hid  far  beneath  this  softest  color,  whence, 
The  old  mythology  has  often  wove 
Its  tales  of  passion  and  undying  love. 


49 


5O  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


I  WOULD  BE  FREE. 

Turn  not  on  me  thy  wild,  wide  eyes, 
I  know  the  magic  of  their  glance, 

O,  veil  thy  bosom's  gentle  rise, 

And  free  me  from  this  charmed  trance ! 

The  night  wind  never  slept  so  still, 

Nor  blossoms  breathe  such  perfume  here 

What  power  is  this  that  chains  my  will 
And  leaves  me  helpless,  thee  when  near? 

Why  should  I  chide  my  truant  heart 
When  beauty's  face  is  formed  so  fair? 

The  smiles  that  from  thy  red  lips  start, 
Can  slave  my  mind  and  hold  it  there. 

Touch  but  thy  lips?  It  cannot  be! 

Too  deep  the  thrill,  too  sweet  the  joy, 
O,  tempt  me  not  my  vows  to  flee! 

Such  bliss  would  all  my  peace  destroy. 


I  WOULD  BE  FREE. 


Turn  not  on  me  thy  wild,  wide  eyes, 
For  love  must  follow  where  they  stray  ; 

I  would  be  free  as  Orient  skies, 

From  clouds  that  follow  passion's  sway. 


52  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 


For  who  hath  grieved  when  soft  arms  shut  him  safe, 

And  all  life  melted  to  a  happy  sigh, 

And  all  the  world  was  given  in  one  warm  kiss  ? 

—  The  Light  of  Asia. 


Young  love  is  the  Lethe  of  sorrow  and  sadness, 
She  smiles  and  the  hot  tears  forget  their  quick  flow ; 

Deep   wounds  are   oft   healed  by  the  sunshine  of 

gladness, 
Then  shun  not  this  balm  from  a  bosom  of  snow. 

The  knights  of  Old  Spain  sought  the  Fountain  of 
Youth, 

In  lands  far  from  home  where  summer  unending, 
Blushed  ever  with  flowers  whose  perfume,  in  sooth, 

Was  as  sweet  as  the  dew  on  the  jasmine  sleeping. 

But  in  vain  was  the  search,  and  they  perished  at  last ; 
The  secret  they  knew  not,  for  youth  does  not  flow 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH.  53 

From  the  founts  of  a  land  where  by  chance  we  are 

cast, 
Though  it  sparkle  and  cheer  like  old  wine  in  its 

glow. 


In  the  bowers  of  Hispania  her  maids  are  awake, 
The  orange  trees  breathe  their  soft  perfume  around; 

Light  guitar  and  castinet  harmony  make, 

And  the  gay  dance  is  tripped  to  voluptuous  sound. 


The  rich  wine  flows  free,  but  the  lips  that  it  stains 
Shame  its  red  hue  in  depth,  in  warmth  and  in  glow  ; 

What  more  could  ye  want,  when  worn  with  war's 

pains, 
Than  to  rest  by  these  fountains  and  all  care  forego? 


Ah,  here  are  the  fountains  of  youth  that  ye  lost, 
In  your  own  sunny  land  ;  not  in  forest  and  wild, 

Where  man  hath  not  trod,  yet  bitter  the  cost 
To  pine  with  that  thirst  but  forever  exiled ! 


54  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Not  in  everglades  bright  with  rare  flowers,  is  foand 
The  draught  that  shall  youth's  immortality  give; 

Go  seek  it  where  love  and  light  pleasure  abound, 
And  innumerate  years  in  one  hour  you  will  live. 

It  dwells  in  the  roses  on  beauty's  soft  cheek, 

In  the  sigh  from  the  bosom,  and  flash  from  the  eye 

Repose  here,  O,  tired  ones,  no  farther  need  seek, 
These  fountains  flow  ever,  and  ever  are  nigh. 


'NEATH  THE  WILLOWS.  55 


'NEATH  THE  WILLOWS. 

A  SUMMER  IDYL. 
I. 

'Neath  the  willows  by  the  river, 
Where  the  shadows  darkly  lie, 
Where  the  dark  and  gloomy  shadows 

Never  die ; 

Where  the  sunlight's  sheen  and  quiver 
Always  enters  an  intruder — 

With  a  sigh; 
There  the  red-wings  pipe  in  summer, 

Swinging  lightly  to  their  cadence, 
Far  above  the  drowsy  water's 

Faintest  accents ; 

There  the  naiad's  fairest  daughters 
Lave  and  sport  with  strangest  laughter's 

Soft  allurements. 


56  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


II. 


Meadows  sweet  with  purple  clover 

Sloping  to  the  water's  edge, 
Downward  to  the  scented  thyme 

And  graceful  sedge ; 
Always  beck' n ing  to  the  rover, 
Sighing  to  the  pl'aintive  plover 

In  the  hedge ; 
Come  and  lounge  beneath  the  willows, 

I  will  sing  while  you  shall  stay; 
Toil  not  in  the  burning  sunshine 

Of  the  day ; 

Here  are  cool,  refreshing  shadows, 
Here  are  purple,  perfumed  meadows, 

Come  and  stay — 

Come  and  stray, 

Where  the  star-eyed  daisies  smile, 
Where  the  cat-bird  calls  the  while — 

'Neath  the  willows. 


NEATH  THE  WILLOWS.  57 


III. 

Drifts  a  boat  a-down  the  river, 

Underneath  the  hanging  willows, 
Light  oars  break  the  shimmering  surface 

Into  billows  ; 
Soft  and  undulating  ever, 
In  the  falling  twilight,  never 

Sweeter  song  rose  ; 
Song  with  two  low  voices  blended, 

One  with  dreamy  echoing  flute-notes, 
Th'  other  deep  and  grand  and  solemn 

Upward  floats ;    . 
But  in  harmony  they  ended, 
Separate,  yet  together  blended 

From  their  throats. 

IV. 

Words  like  these  were  borne  to  me 
'Neath  the  shadows  listlessly: 
Come,  when  the  daylight  dies, 
Under  the  star-lit  skies, 


58  POEMS  Of  LOVE. 

This  is  love's  own  hour, 

Who  could  resist  its  power? 
Not  I,  not  I,  while  youth  shall  last ; 
While  passion  burns  no  joy  is  past. 

With  silvered  locks  and  age, 

Pleasures,  no  more  engage  ; 

Let  us  love  while  we  live, 

What  more  can  earth  give  ? 
Then  come  'neath  the  stars  on  the  river's  tide, 
We'll  gather  the  lotus  and  sing  as  we  glide  ; 
And,  O,  the  wild  rapture — my  darling,  my  bride — 

To  clasp  thee  again, 
To  clasp  thee  and  love  thee  forever  my  own, 

While  life  shall  remain — 

While  life  with  its  rosiest  chain 
Weaves  our  hearts  into  one  on  Hymen's  soft  throne. 


V. 


Dies  the  song's  last  words  in  the  distance- 
Fades  their  forms  in  gray  and  twilight; 

Thus  their  lives  drift  on  together 
Glad  and  bright;* 


'NEATH  THE  WILLOWS.  59 

Caught  in  fancy's  web  of  chance 
On  this  river  of  romance, 

Free  from  night ; 
And  each  holds  the  other's  heart 
Captive  as  its  dearest  part. 

VI. 

Truth  to  me  all  this  had  seemed, 
'Neath  the  willows  I'd  but  dreamed, 

Lounging  there  this  summer  reverie, 
Pictured  pleasures  I  ne'er  deemed 

Could  for  mortal  ever  be — 
Songs  and  scenes  too  sweet  to  last — 
Dreaming,  thought  I  held  them  fast, 
Waking,  found  them  ever  past, 

'  And  I  alone  'neath  the  willows. 


6O  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


DRIFTING. 


We  are  drifting,  love,  apart, 

As  the  ebbing  waters  flow 
Backward  from  my  lonely  heart, 

Leaving  all  my  thoughts  aglow 
With  the  sands  of  recollection  ; 

And  the  shores  are  desolate 
Where  the  tide  of  hope  begun, 

Broken  now  by  storms  of  fate. 


O,  could  I  but  span  the  years 

Gone  since  first  as  friends  we  met, 

With  such  bridge  as  mem'ry  rears 
O'er  some  chasm  of  regret, 

When  I  feel  the  sad  conviction 


DRIFTING.  6 1 

Piercing  like  a  poisoned  dart, 
And  I  hear  the  murmured  diction — 
We  are  drifting,  love,  apart. 


Drifting,  drifting,  surely,  swiftly, 

From  the  shores  where  love  has  dwelt, 
Happy,  free  and  thoughtlessly, 

On  that  sea  the  mind  has  felt 
Sweep  in  surges  o'er  the  past, 

'Till  its  brighest  memories 
All  are  carried  with  the  last, 

Into  depths  the  soul  ne'er  flees. 


Lingers  there  not.  love,  one  moment 

That  the  heart  can  still  hold  dear, 
Neither  tainted  by  lament 

Nor  the  blight  of  doubting  fear — 
That  amid  a  world  of  care, 

Like  a  flame  in  deep  recess, 
Lights  for  awhile  with  dying  glare 

Darkness  it  would  fain  depress  ? 


62  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  above  all  life's  allurements 

Shines  the  light  of  other  days, 
Flashing  brightly  through  the  rents 

Caused  by  thought  where  e'er  it  strays ; 
Yet  there  comes  when  hope  looms  darkly 

O'er  a  world  where  joys  depart, 
Echoes  from  the  past  so  dreary — 

We  are  drifting,  love,  apart. 


A  PORTRAIT.  63 


A  PORTRAIT. 

Oft  as  I  look  upon  this  face, 

A  thousand  joys  my  mind  recalls  ; 

Sweet,  happy  moments  that  embrace 
Years  in  their  singleness — enthralls 

My  feelings  with  love's  lightest  chain, 

Which  tightly  binds  with  willing  pain. 

Here  I  can  view  that  sweetest  smile 
Which  ever  won  the  hearts  of  all, 

And  often  helps  mine  to  beguile 

Its  sadness  when  a  sigh  would  fall — 

That  flash  of  sunshine  which  dispells 

The  ebon  clouds  where  doubt  oft  dwells. 

The  soft  gold  falling  round  her  brow, 

In  wavy  ringlets  unconfined, 
Marks  but  one  charm  youth's  beauty  now- 


64  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

In  all  its  lovliness  resigned — 
Would  add  to  innocence  and  grace, 
Twin  virtues  of  that  fairest  face. 

That  form  to  me,  soft  Aphrodite, 
With  her  magic  girdle  bound, 

Rising  from  out  the  Grecian  sea 
Had  circled  her  slight  zone  around, 

And  that  enticing  power  had  given 

Which  now  to  her  my  heart  has  driven. 

Yes,  e'en  though  years  had  passed  away 
And  this  fond  gift  had  ne'er  been  mine, 

Ah,  well  could  I  recall  the  day 

When  love  and  life  dwelt  e'er  with  thine, 

For  now  thy  form  more  fair  than  art, 

Shall  live  forever  in  my  heart. 


LONGING.  65 


LONGING. 

I  am  sad  to-night,  my  darling, 
Weary,  and  my  soul  rests  not, 

For  thy  form  haunts  all  my  dreaming, 
Visions  throng  me  unforgot. 

Eyes  with  tender  passion  beaming, 
Half  betray  the  minds  desire, 

True  and  constant  without  seeming, 
On  thy  shrine  Love  lights  his  fire. 

Dark  misgivings  crowd  the  mem'ry, 
Hopes  and  fears  each  in  their  turn 

War  for  the  ascendency, — 

Still  my  heart  for  thee  must  yearn. 

What  though  cruel  disappointment 
Crown  at  last  each  dream  of  bliss, 

Shall  a  thought  of  harsh  resentment 
Give  thy  lips  a  Judas  kiss? 


66  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

No,  the  world,  though  stern,  unfeeling, 
Weaves  the  lie  in  truth's  fair  guise, 

I  shall  ne'er  by  double-dealing 
Hope  to  win  the  humblest  prize. 

Should  the  vilest  tongue  malign  thee, 
Spurn  it  with  a  high  disdain, 

Truth  shall  triumph-  and  assign  thee 
All  that  worth  and  virtue  gain. 

Youth  denied  its  spring-time  pleasures, 

Love  forbidden  cannot  die ; 
These,  the  world's  supremest  treasures, 
Will  surmount  adversity. 

Let  us  fill  the  foaming  goblet, 
Drink  to  all  the  dear,  dead  days, 

And  we'll  pledge  to  ne'er  forget 
Joys  that  brightened  all  our  ways. 

Friendship  clasped  the  hand  of  Fancy, 
Gave  no  thought  for  future  years  ; 

Heedless  though  that  grasp  should  bind  me, 
Will  it  end  in  smiles  or  tears  ? 


LONGING.  67 

Though  to-night  I'm  sitting  lonely, 

Dreaming  of  the  happy  past, 
Phantoms  of  the  future  show  me 

All  the  joys  that  wait  at  last. 

"  Love  is  enough,"  my  heart  is  saying, 

Why  rebel  against  decree  ? 
Life  can  own  no  truer  swaying, 

And  my  soul  still  yearns  for  thee. 

Then  my  heart  forget  your  sighing, 

Love  will  ever  seek  its  own, 
And  the  years  though  dark  and  trying 

Will  for  all  their  ills  atone. 


68  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


A  GREETING  FROM  THE  SOUTH. 

When  e'er  I  think  of  thee,  my  love, 
As  evening  woos  the  summer  sky, 
In  vain  my  burning  heart  can  prove 

Its  yearnings  save  with  lonely  sigh. 
O,  say,  shall  I  tell  thee  the  day  will  soon  come 
When  I'll  meet  thee  again  in  thy  own  loved  home, 
And  clasp  thee  again  to  my  bosom  so  true  ? 
But,  O,  for  tonight,  love,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

The  river  flowing  t'ward  the  sea 

Forgets  too  soon  its  mountain  home, 
But  as  I  farther  stray  from  thee, 

My  thoughts,  my  dreams  to  thee  still  come. 
O,  could  I  but  see  thy  dear  form  once  more, 
And  feel  the  soft  light  of  the  eyes  I  adore ; 
O,  what  could  e'er  drive  me  again  far  and  wide 
When  to  live  in  thy  love  is  worth  all  life  beside. 


A  GREETING  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  69 

Let  hope's  balmy  touch  brush  the  cares  from  thy 

brow, 

Like  a  lover's  caress  when  the  soft  curls  stray, 
And  I'll  love  thee  as  fondly  as  though  I  were  now 

By  thy  side,  darling  Vera,  forever  to  stay. 
Yes,  yes,  I  will  come  ere  the  roses  shall  fade, 
And  if  still  not  to  claim   thee,  the  vows  that  were 

made 

I'll  renew  with  devotion,  and  all  that  the  heart 
Can  give  to  its  idol,  when  long  drawn  apart. 


/O  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


BIRDS  OF  NIGHT. 
I. 

O,  dreary  birds  of  night, 

Mid  storms  on  gloomy  wing, 

Whither  your  lonely  flight  ? 

What  thoughts  your  wild  cries  bring  ! 

From  frozen  rivers  drear, 

To  summer  climes  you  go, 
Where  Winter  comes  not  near 

And  wild-flowers  ever  blow. 

My  thoughts  are  borne  with  thee 
Mid  clouds  of  darkness  and  doubt ; 

To  that  land  of  sunshine  they  flee, 
They  dwell  on  the  storms  without. 

How  you,  O,  birds,  recall. 

Sad  recollections,  sweet, 
As  you  battle  the  storms  that  enthrall 

And  hope  never  wanes  with  defeat. 


BIRDS  OF  NIGHT. 


II. 


Years,  long  years  ago,  when  shone 

Gay  youth,  a  tiny  figure  stole 
Silent,  radiant,  all  unknown, 

And  claimed  a  place  within  my  soul. 

She  was  so  young,  so  pure  and  fair, 

So  shyly  beautiful  and  bright, 
That  one  harsh  breath  could  turn  the  rare 

Soft  sunshine  of  her  life  to  night. 

And  yet  she  knew  it  not  through  years, 
Knew  not  her  love  like  thistle-down, 

Borne  on  the  whisp'ring,  morning  zephyrs, 
Had  lodged  within  my  heart,  nor  flown. 

The  little  wanderer  had  found 
A  home,  a  resting  place  secure, 

Where  love  and  hope  in  one  were  bound, 
Nor  separation  could  endure. 


72  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  ever  there  she  has  remained, 

Like  dew  that  cheers  the  drooping  flower, 

And  has  for  life  a  lustre  gained 

Unknown  without  affection's  bower. 


III. 

What  though  the  wild-birds  scream  to-night, 
Their  harsh  and  weird  notes  of  woe  ; 

What  though  within  a  pensive  plight 
My  mind  is  carried  as  they  go  ? 

Tis  only  this,  that  they  recall, 

A  love  that's  stronger  than  my  life, 

And  their  strange  cries  seem  like  a  pall 
That  heralds  death  of  hope,  and  strife. 

And  yet  I  know  there  is  no  trust, 

No  love  more  pure  and  true  than  hers — 

My  Edith's — though  the  years  still  thrust 
Me  from  her  smile,  and  bring  their  fears. 


BIRDS  OF  NIGHT.  73 

No  more  I  hear  the  wail  of  winds, 
The  cries  of  wild-birds  hurrying  on  ; 

Lost  in  love's  reverie  nothing  binds 
The  spirit  that  would  clasp  its  own. 

And  still  the  big  drops  ceasless  beat 
Against  the  casement,  and  the  trees 

Moan  piteously  amid  the  sleet 

That  falls  from  black  and  boreal  skies. 


74  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


FADED  ROSES. 


The  roses  are  sweet  though  they're  faded, 

I  would  not  fling  them  away, 
In  my  love's  fair  hair  they  were  braided, 

She  gave  them  at  parting  today. 

With  their  pale  leaves  I  weave  with  quick  fancy 
The  rapture  one  moment  could  give, 

When  the  waltz-music  sounded  so  dreamy, 
And  life  seemed  all  rythm  and  love. 

Then  her  head  rested  close  to  my  shoulder, 
With  its  gold-waves  and  roses  entwined, 

O,  the  madness  their  odor  breathed  ever, 
Like  poppies  distilled  o'er  my  mind. 


FADED  ROSES.  75 

And  I  press  to  my  lips  the  droop'd  petals, 
And  think  of  the  pleasures  now  past, 

When  the  nights  all  seemed  bright  madrigals, 
Nor  doubted  such  joycould  not  last. 

Shall  summer  when  winter  has  fallen, 
Never  gladden  the  days  that  are  dark  ? 

Shall  the  days  that  are  happy  and  golden 
Ne'er  illumine  the  days  of  dull  work  ? 

Who  would  dash  down  the  wine-cup  impatient, 

And  shatter  the  crystal  unfilled  ? 
Has  the  draught  not  been  drunk  with  enjoyment, 

While  eyes  glanced  and  bosoms  were  thrilled  ? 

The  waltz  will  out  live  its  last  cadence, 
Though  the  ball-room's  deserted  and  still, 

And  the  pressure,  the  beauty,  the  movements, 
Long  recur  our  soft  reveries  to  fill. 

Never  slight  the  perfume  of  dead  roses, 
Nor  the  fragrance  of  wine  that  has  glowed, 

The  sweetest  of  earth  e'er  reposes 
In  memory's  fancied  abode. 


Sonnets. 


TO  ATHENA. 

what  is  writ,  is  writ, 

Would  it  were  worthier. 

— Byron. 


SONNETS. 


HOPE. 

As  when  misfortune  groping  in  despair, 
Touches  the  hand  of  hope,  and  once  again 
Feels  sure  and  safe  in  all  it  could  attain, 
So  you,  sweet  friend,  have  led  me   upward,  where 

All  seemed  chaos,  every  path  a  snare, 

And  bid  me  trust  again,  and  woke  a  strain 
Long  silent  in  my  heart,  free  from  all  pain, 
Till  the  lax  strings  again  to  strike  I  dare. 

Deep  feeling  courts  not  words,  nor  gratitude 

Expression  ;  yet,  perchance,  thine  eyes  can  read 
More  than  is  writ,  and  see  a  striving  here, 

For  that  which  is  not  reached,  or  feebly  sued  ; 
If  aught  is  best,  think  that  the  flame  was  fed 
From  thy  pure  shrine,  I  claim  no  portion,  dear. 


8O  SONNETS. 


II. 


HELLAS. 

I  see  upon  the  towering,  marbled  height 
Of  Athens'  glory — the  Acropolis — 
A  form  majestic,  grand  and  Jove-like  this, 
Amid  the  temples  and  the  fanes  of  light, 

That  gave  to  Greece  her  prowess  and  her  might 
In  arms  and  art ;  victorious  Salamis, 
The  Phidian  wonders,  the  Arcadian  age  of  bliss, 
That  from  the  world  forever  took  their  flight. 

I  see  the  rude,  barbaric  warriors  mount 

The  sacred  hill,  their  hands  no  mercy  know — 
The  priests  out  driven,  the  vestals  violate, 

The  city  given  to  plunder's  dire  account — 

All  lost,  save  fragments  that  through  ages  glow 
With  light  divine,  nor  time  obliterate. 


SONNETS.  8 1 


III. 


HELLAS. 

Delphi  is  desolate !     No  more  shall  sound 
The  rythmic  oracles  that  told  the  fate 
Of  men  and  nations,  pride  and  power  and  state, 
A-ll  humbled  in  the  dust ;  nor  scarce  is  found 

A  trace  of  what  shall  be  to  ages  round 

Wonder  of  wonders.  The  earth  can  find  no  mate 
For  thy  blind,  wand'ring  bard  whose  songs  so  great 
In  every  tongue,  in  every  heart  resound. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  O,  Hellas  !     Life  like  thine 
Unto  thy  race  is  a  rich  heritage  ! 
Sappho  still  sings ;  Anacreon's  lyre  of  love, 

Tuneless  through  ages,  still  echoes  chords  divine  ! 
Thy  sculptured  forms,  fill  yet  a  nobler  page 
Of  that  proud  history  time  cannot  improve. 


82  SONNETS. 


IV. 


HELLAS. 

O,  could  the  shades  of  thy  dead  past  assume 
Their  god-like  forms,  and  attributes  of  power 
That  rescued  beauty  from  her  lustful  dower; 
To  Priam's  city  placed  the  torch  of  doom — 

And  flame  and  war  filled  foes  with  hopeless  gloom — 
Greece  would  be  free  in  that  same  day  and  hour ! 
Eros,  alone,  smiles  in  his  sunny  bower. 
And  blights  the  manhood  that  he  should  illume  ; 

Grim  Mars  is  dead;  Apollo  is  no  more; 

The  Wingless  Victories  that  crowned  the  Capitol — 
The  trophies  thy  immortal  valor  won — 

Have  crept  abject,  not  flown  from  off  thy  shore  ; 
All  these  have  gone,  and  naught  remains  or  shall, 
While  foreign  yoke  rests  on  this  land  of  sun. 


SONNETS.  83 


V. 


APHRODITE. 

Not  by  ignoble  worship  at  the  Cyprean  shrine, 
Nor  fawning  at  the  feet  of  beauty's  queen — 
Though  never  lured  she  with  such  tempting  mien — 
Can  true  ambition  ever  hope  to  shine 

Upon  the  tablets  of  the  Sacred  Nine : 

Stern  sisters  they,  with  face  and  brow  serene, 
Who  own  no  half  devotion  ;  it  must  wean 
The  world  and  the   soft   breast  where    pleasures 
twine 

Their  rosiest  garlands  with  seductive  smile, 

Till  youth  forgets — though    dreams    he    sweetest 

there, 
And  fancy  builds  in  clouds  its  lofty  towers — 

Lost  is  the  power  to  act  ;  manhood  the  while 
Forsakes  him,  and  the  visioned  fame  so  fair, 
Bursts  like  a  bubble  mid  these  wanton  hours. 


84  SONNETS. 


VI. 


VIRGINIA. 

Land  of  my  birth !  with  trembling  hand  I  twine 

These  homely  wreaths  to  place  upon  thy  brow ! 

Ah,  small  the  honor  I  could  bring  thee  now — 

Thy  errant  son — by  aught  that  I  enshrine, 
Though  all  the  power  of  every  age  combine 

To  pour  through  this  my  verse's  sluggish  flow ; 

The  past  has  filled  thy  annals  with  a  glow 

Time  shall  not  dim  though  all  should  rival  thine  ! 
O,  from  this  deep,  lethargic  slumber  rise  ! 

Shake  off  the  shackles  that  would  drag  thee  down  ! 

They  futnre  yet  shall  glorious  be  and  proud 
Even  as  thy  past !     Ope  but  the  closed  eyes  ! 

Lo,  Nature  gives  thee  all ;  no  part  has  flown ! 

Put  regal  garments  on,  cast  off  thy  shroud  ! 


SONNETS.  85 


VII. 

VIRGINIA. 

The  blow  that  broke  the  Afric's  galling  chain, 

And    raised    him    from    the    serfdom    where    he 
wrought, 

Has  not  loosed  thine,  the  slavery  of  thought ; 

Its  swift  wheels  never  can  be  stayed  again 
While  progress  holds  the  lash;  why  not  be  taught? 

Why  still  refuse  the  lesson  thy  blood  bought  ? 

Dwell  not  upon  the  past,  such  act  were  vain  ; 

What  can  it  bring  thee  now,  what  e'er  attain  ? 
Forget  thy  pride !     It  only  can  degrade, 

Unless  it  serve  as  impetus  to  deeds 

That  emulate  the  great  of  other  days. 
The  present  calls  thee,  all  thy  latent  aid 

The  nation  waits  to  add  to  her  great  needs, 

And  haste  the  glory  that  thy  sloth  delays. 


86  SONNETS. 

VIII. 
MONTECELLO. 

I  stand  on  hallowed  ground ;  there  is  not  here, 
Within  this  wide  domain  historic,  found, 
A  spot  more  sacred  to  the  pilgrim  bound 
For  liberty's  most  reverenced  shrine  and  dear — 

Save  one,  Mount  Vernon,  resting  ever  near 
The  blue  Potomac.    Dense  the  hill  is  crowned 
With  the  venerable  oaks  that  shade  the  mound 
Where  sleeps  the  friend  of  man  who  knew  no  fear. 

The  soft  June  morn  rests  on  the  peaceful  valley; 
It  is  a  glorious  prospect !     Far  away 
The  purple  mountains  and  the  welkin  blend ; 

Earth  may  have  fairer  scenes — though  few  they  be — 
But  the  proud  world  can  boast  no  son  to-day 
More  worthy  of  its  homage  or  his  end. 


SONNETS.  87 


IX. 


CHIPPEWA. 

Sitting  alone  within  the  shady  wood 

I  watched  the  sun  go  down  beyond  the  lake — 
A  scene  of  such  sweet  calmness  it  could  wake 
Melody  from  hushed  lips — and  such  a  mood 

Stole  o'er  me  there,  gazing  upon  the  flood 
Of  roseate,  golden  light  that  seemed  to  break 
Upon  the  water,  that  no  art  could  make 
More  lovely  in  its  every  change  that  woo'd. 

The  trees  upon  the  distant,  fading  shore, 

And  sloping  meadows  glowing  with  their  wealth 
Of  purple  clover  still  uncut,  were  all 

Reflected  in  the  changeless  face  it  bore  ; 

The  twilight  fell,  and  with  redoubled  stealth 
The  shadows  crept  from  out  the  nightly  pall. 


88  SONNETS. 


X. 


CHIPPEWA. 

Ling'ring,  I  watched  the  moon's  pale  crescent  rise, 
Shrouded  in  amber  mist,  above  the  trees  ; 
I    could    have  wished  them   ever,    moments   like 

these, 
When  the  tired  heart  reads  in  the  starry  eyes 

That  gaze  upon  him,  hints  of  the  infinities, 
And  then  will  mount  superior  to  decrees 
Of  flesh,  and  earth's  desponding  tendencies — 
Accepting  all,  nor  humblest  will  despise. 

The  lights  began  to  glimmer  through  the  grove, 
And  then,  from  the  pavillion,  softly  rose 
Orchestral  music ;  fainter  I  could  hear 

At  intervals,  the  sounds  of  feet  that  love 

Harmonious  movements,   and  delight  that  knows 
No  joy  more  sweet,  no  pleasure  half  so  dear. 


SONNETS.  89 


XI. 


CHIPPEWA. 

Musing,  I  heeded  not  the  hours  flew  fast, 

Nor  cared  ;  it  seemed  all  one  could  hope  or  wish  ; 
And  yet,  sometimes,  soft  o'er  the  soothing  hush 
Of  this  sweet  reverie,  there  would  steal  at  last, 

A  longing  vague,  that  whispered  of  a  past, 
Completer  happiness,  with  luring  sound, 
'Till  I  forgot  the  beauty  spread  around, 
And  all  but  this,  the  lonely,  sad  contrast. 

But  hush !     See,  through  the  woody  vista  trips 
A  white-rob'd  figure,  yet  with  feet  so  light 
That  scarce  a  leaf  stirred  along  her  way  ; 

A  hand  steals  into  mine  ;  warm  lips  meet  lips — 
A  thrill — a  joy  ! — Lost  was  the  beauteous  night, 
The  stars  faded,  music  vain  discordancy. 


Cp  SONNETS. 


XII. 


SALUTATION. 

To  you  who  with  unfeigned  friendship  strove, 
And  kind  endeavor,  my  lone  life  to  cheer 
When  home  was  distant  with  its  memories  dear, 
And  every  pleasure  truest  freedom  gave, 

Where  mountains  vied  in  blue  the  ocean's  wave, 
And  the  .Potomac,  calm  and  crystal  clear 
Flowed  'neath  high  piny  cliffs  where  eagles  rear 
Their  fearless  young,  and  I  as  free  to  roam. 

I  miss  the  mountains  now,  I  miss  the  love 

Of  those  with  whom  my  earliest  years  were  spent ; 
But  when  I  find  staunch  friends,  as  I  have  found, 

Where  lewd  suspicion  makes  of  truth  a  slave, 
And  slander's  tongue  to  every  ear  is  bent, 
I  gain  new  courage  for  the  day's  dull  round. 


SONEETS.  91 


XIII. 

CONSTANCY. 

Can  we  be  false  to  one  another,  Love, 

When  all  the  world  seems  soulless,  and  of  stone 
The -hearts  where  tenderness  should  live  alone; 
And  in  their  petty  strife  the  good  dissolve 

That  should  ennoble,  not  degrading  prove  ? 
How  small  the  compass  that  confines  the  tone 
Of  their  pent  lives — the  natures  that  disown 
All  human  harmony — discordant  grown 

By  their  own  hate  and  venomed  jealousy, 
Fling  open  wide  the  Janus-gates  of  strife, 
And  pitying  Peace  forever  driven  away ! 

No,  Love  must  bind  with  truest  constancy, 
The  wounds  that  silent  grieve  away  the  life, 
And  thus  defeat  will  mock  the  spoiler's  play. 


92  SONNETS. 


XIV. 

A  TRIBUTE. 

What  shall  I  give  to  thee  whose  form,  whose  soul, 
Whose  beauty  soft  as  twilight  dreams  of  love 
Filled  with  the  beings  of  some  sphere  above, 
Impells  each  aspiration  t'ward  its  goal ; 

Restrains  me  when  the  fiercer  passions  roll 

Within  my  breast,  and  every  good  can  prove — 
Ambition,  hope — all  that  for  which  I  strove 
To  raise  my  life  and  form  a  perfect  whole  ? 

For  thee  I  tune  my  long  neglected  lute, 
But  strive  in  vain  to  sing  becoming  praise; 
And  O,  how  poor  such  homely  chords  must  seem, 

For  thy  charms  make  the  strings  forever  mute, 
And  dull,  and  soulless ;  and  these  simple  lays 
Are  but  the  echo  of  that  twilight  dream. 


93 


XV. 

YOU  BID  ME  SING. 

You  bid  me  sing :  can  broken  heart-strings  thrill 
With  rhymed  words  and  soft,  caressing  songs — 
Low  murmured  love — which  to  the  god  belongs 
Whose  blinded  sight  can  see  no  eyelids  fill 

With  sad,  salt  tears  and  spirit-breaking  ill — 

When  every  pulse-throb  but  recalls  my  wrongs, 
My  withered  hopes,  the  joyless  nights  day  brings, 
And  drives  all  harmony  far  from  my  will  ? 

Ah,  Love,  there  was  a  heavenly  time  to  me, 
When  first  I  saw  thy  beauty  in  my  dreams, 
That  shed  a  radiance  o'er  my  darkest  days; 

Then  I  beheld  strange  melodies  in  thee, — 
Faintest,  intangible,  unearth-born  forms — 
Songs  that  no  mortal  pens  for  human  lays. 


94  SONNETS. 


XVI. 

THE  PAST. 

Come  to  me,  Love,  and  let  me  kiss  away 
The  cares  that  rob  me  of  the  smile  that  erst 
Did  greet  me,  long — so  long  ago — when  first 
At  eve  we  walked  beneath  the  silvered  ray 

Of  stars  mysterious  ;  and  for  the  day, 

No  thought  would  take,  if  love's  unsated  thirst, 
But  for  an  hour  were  slaked  in  streams  that  burst 
From  deep,  full  hearts,  where  feeling  has  its  sway. 

I  look  upon  the  past — which  is  not  past, 
Or  ne'er  can  be  while  memory  still  is  true 
To  its  glad  days,  and  peace  which  comes  no  more — 

With  longing  that  with  every  change  must  last, 
And  dwarf  the  pleasures  that  the  years  shall  strew 
Along  my  path,  though  brightest  hues  they  wore. 


SONNETS.  95 


XVII. 

BEAUTY. 

Beauty,  I  know  not  what  thou  art,  nor  care  ; 
Demon  or  god,  alone  I  worship  thee ! 
And  helpless  own  they  lordly  mastery. 
Yet  this  I  know,  thou  art  supremely  fair, 

Making  all  pale  beside  thy  radiance  rare  ; 
Teach  me  thy  secrets,  I  thy  slave  will  be, 
Renouncing  all  if  once  thy  form  I  see, 
Yet  such  a  boon  no  mortal  hopes  to  share. 

I  saw  a  face  that  the  Greek  gods  might  own 
With  pride,  so  pure  and  placid  in  each  line, 
And  calm  and  fair  as  Psyche  ;  then,  again,  I  turned 

And  looked ;  lo,  all  had  fled  ;  even  cold  as  stone 
It  seemed,  and  soulless  ;  yet,  I  still  seek  thine, 
Following  a  fantasy,  perchance,  though  warned. 


96  SONNETS. 


XVIII. 

RESOLUTION. 

Life  is  a  troubled  sea,  and  restless,  so 

Despair  oft  comes,  and  hope  lies  but  a  wreck 
Of  bitter  aspirations,  that  bedeck 
The  shores  of  desolation  and  of  woe, 

Where  late  the  buoyant,  laughing  flow 
Of  spirits  ran,  and  swept  away  all  thought 
That  in  our  lives  this  darkest  color  wrought, 
And  like  a  mourning  mantle  weighs  us  low. 

Is  this  man's  end,  to  sink  ?     His  destiny 
Demands  an  effort  worthy  of  the  name, 
To  which  posterity  can  point  and  say ; 

Here  was  a  man  who  fought  the  hard  decree 
Of  fate  unflinchingly,  victorious  came 
From  each  fierce  battle,  with  an  added  ray. 


SONNETS.  97 


XIX. 
HEBE. 

O,  sprite  of  beauty  flitting  through  my  dreams — 
Sweet  Tantala — I  e'er  could  fondly  fold 
In  warm  embrace  thy  fairy,  wanton  mould  ! 
To  kiss  thy  taunting  lips  so  tempting  seems, 

That  I  would  brave  the  sacred,  sylvan  streams 
Where  Dian  laves — tho'  who  so  brave, 
Upon  her  naked  loveliness  untold, 
Once  gazing,  loses  life's  dear  flame. 

So,  Actaeon-like,  would  I  surrender  all 

If  to  thy  bower  my  footsteps  I  could  speed, 

And  drink  deep  draughts  of  love  from  thy  sweet  lips 

Where  none  could  hear  our  sighings  softly  fall — 
Mingling  with  fragrance  from  the  flowery  mead — 
While  joy  from  every  fount  new  pleasure  sips. 


98  SONNETS. 


XX. 

HEBE. 

The  liquid  languor  of  thine  eyes,  infinite 

In  change,  and  playful,  deep  as  azure  ocean ; 
Soft  as  the  hyacinthine-perfumed  lotion 
That  steals  our  senses  in  a  may-time  night  ; 

Or  like  the  violet's  more  modest  fright 
Hiding  amid  the  grass  in  shyest  notion — 
So  art  thine  eyes  to  me  with  every  motion, 
Shedding  or  shutting  out  their  subtle  light. 

Thrilled  as  I  gaze,  no  mortal  power  could  bind 
Me  like  their  siren,  silent  playfulness. 
That  seems  to  draw  and  hold  me  like  twin  stars 

At  which  we  look  till  dazzled  and  quite  blind, 
Striving  like  old  astrologers  to  guess 
What  horoscope  awaits  our  sinking  fears. 


SONNETS.  99 


XXI. 
NO  LOVE  IS  LOST. 

No  love  is  lost  though  it  sleep  on  forever 

In  some  shut  breast,  sighing  the  while  it  sleeps, 
Yearning  for  joys  some  other  always  reaps; 
Fleeing  like  fragrance  the  touch  to  the  sense  would 
deliver ; 

And  inarticulate,  complaining  never, 

In  endless  dream  Endymion-like,  that  steeps 
Existence  all  in  bliss,  but  never  leaps 
Within  the  wave  of  passion's  restless  river. 

Though  saddest  heart  should  weep  my  years  away 
And  broken  vows  be  all  that's  left  to  me, 
I  know  my  love  will  live  and  love  again 

When  nature  shall  dissolve  in  voiceless  clay, 
And  be  a  portion  of  infinity, 
Undying  but  beyond  all  mortal  ken. 


IOO  SONNETS. 


XXII. 


LOVE    IMMORTAL. 


I  know  my  love  shall  never  fade  and  die 

And  sink  like  flowers  that  blush  but  for  a  day, 
Lost  to  all  sense,  forever  past  away 
Nor  having  aught  of  color  or  of  beauty — 

Ephemeral  things,  true-called  of  human  frailty 
The  emblem.     This  I  feel  and  always  say ; 
My  love  immortal  is,  and  so  shall  play 
A  part  in  lives  unborn,  unknown  to  me. 

O,  sweet  consoling  thought !  That  though  my  love 
No  echo  finds  in  a  harsh  world  of  doubt, 
And  never  feels  the  sympathy  it  yearns, 

That,  Phoenix-like,  I  know  'twill  rise  above 
Decay  of  matter,  and  chains  doubly  stout, 
And  clasp  the  form  for  which  it  ceasless  burns. 


SONNETS.  10 1 


XXIII. 


EMERSON. 


Behold,  even  in  this  scandalous,  Sceptico-Epicurean  generation, 
where  all  is  gone  but  hunger  and  cant,  it  is  still  possible  that  Man 
be  a  man.  —  Carlyle. 


He  was  a  man  ;  and  of  that  high  and  noble  state, 
That  pure  simplicity,  seeming  most  near 
Divinity — an  essence  of  his  clear 
Unfeigned  philosophy — and  in  each  trait 

Nearing  the  true  ideal  that  must  await 
The  ages  still  unborn,  ere  it  uprear 
Its  image  as  a  guide  to  those  who  hear, 
But  feebly  understand  his  mission  great. 

Nor  since  those  days  when  in  the  Attic  groves, 
Or  by  the  cooling  streams,  resting  at  noon, 
The  old  philosophers  of  Hellas  sought 

For  truth  untrammeled,  none  but  he  has  thrown 
Such  light  along  this  path  where  seldom  roves 
The  bravest  foot,  for  else  to  him  was  naught. 


IO2  SONNETS. 


XXIV. 
MOIRAE. 

O,  Clotho,  backward  turn  thy  rapid  wheel 

Which  bears  me  on  through  time  ignobly  spent ! 
The  golden  sands  by  hand  infinite  lent, 
Have  darkened  by  a  touch  unknown  to  weal, 

Or  aught  of  joy  that  life  of  fame  can  feel. 
A  tide  of  woe  now  covers  all,  and  rent, 
The  spirit,  with  its  weight  of  conscience  bent 
Bows  low,  this  burning  chastisement  to  feel. 

And  thou  Atropos,  with  the  scale  of  time 
Still  held  aloft  in  wavering  fitful  hand — 
The  fate  of  mortals  and  their  destiny 

To  weigh  impartially — now  in  my  prime 

Thy  doom  delay,  or  yet  with  grave  command 
The  brittle  thread  is  broke,  the  spirit  free. 


SONNETS.  IO3 


XXV. 

YOUTH'S  LOVE. 

When  Love  first  dwelt  in  Eden's  fragrant  bowers, 
Untainted  yet  by  act  or  thought  profane — 
Free  as  a  bird  ere  yet  by  hunter  slain, 
Mounting  to  heights  beyond  recurrent  showers — 

Where  innocence  beguiled  the  happy  hours 
With  sweetest  trust,  no  care,  but  to  remain 
In  confidence  secure,  the  world's  disdain, 
I  knew  the  bliss  where  time  nor  fame  e'er  towers. 

To  thee  I  turn  like  one  who's  wandered  long 
In  distant  lands  and  many  a  pleasure  known, 
And  drank  the  fragrance  of  enticing  rounds 

Till  joy  had  weary  grown  with  its  own  throng 
Of  happiness  ;  remorseful  and  alone, 
I  haste  return  to  feel  thy  soothing  bonds. 


104  SONNETS. 


XXVI. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

O,  how  this  troubled  wave  of  changeful  years, 
Swift  bear  us  on  its  gloomy,  moaning  breast, 
From  childhood  on  to  manhood,  without  rest 
And  ofttimes  hope  ;  and  dark,  perplexing  fears 

Guard  every  step  as  our  "too  willing  ears 

Heed  faintest  callings  with  our  youthful  zest, 
Till  sparkling  pleasure  is  the  goddess  blest, 
And  deep  remorse  ends  life,  and  penal  tears. 

Shall  it  be  so  ?  or  shall  the  nobler  man 
Assert  its  high  supremacy,  and  urge 
Ambition  to  a  loftier,  truer  plane, 

Where  honor,  fame  and  love,  greet  that  proud  van 
Triumphant,  and  the  black'ning,  damning  surge 
Rolls  back,  and  manhood  claims  its  sway  again  ? 


SONNETS.  105 


XXVII. 

EPIGRAM. 

I  heard  a  hard  and  cruel  man  once  say — 
One  who  had  spent  his  life  in  gain  of  gold, 
While  with  one  hand  he  of  his  wealth  untold, 
Seemed  lavish  to  the  poor,  the  other's  play 

Upon  the  widow's  meagre  purse  hard  lay. 
Secure  in  luxury  and  scheming  bold, 
Gave  not  a  thought  of  how  her  deep  tears  rolled, 
And  wrung  from  her  the  pittance  saved  away  ; — 

I  heard  this  man  say  to  the  youths  around, 
Be  just,  and  to  the  needy  freely  give, 
And  it  shall  be  tenfold  returned  to  you ; 

Which  meant:  to  Mammon's  shrine  be  firmly  bound, 
Heed  not  the  heart,  and  you  shall  surely  live 
Honored  by  all,  despised  by  self — your  due. 


IO6  SONNETS. 


XXVIII. 

APOLLO  SCORNED. 

Fair  girl,  why  now  Apollo,  joyful,  shun, 

Or  slight  the  muse  whom  Bacchus  loves  to  crown? 

When  mirth  and  joy  with  gayety  can  drown 

All  sadness  though  by  gloomy  care  begun  ; 
Who  thrilled  Terpsichore,  the  maid  that  won 

The  hearts  of  many  an  age  with  flowing  gown 

And  grace  inimitable,  as  adown 

The  avenues  of  pleasure  gaily  run. 
To  him,  then,  turn  thy  accents,  soothing,  mild, 

There  linger  with  him  in  his  shady  bowers ; 

Delight  awakened  with  his  harp  will  fill 
Thy  breast  with  transport,  feeling  doubly  wild, 

And  often  help  thee  to  beguile  the  hours 

When  loneliness  seeks  to  depress  the  will. 


Sylvan. 


ELYWOOD. 

This  is  the  regal  season  of  the  four; 
The  air  is  laden  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
And  myriad  bees  hum  round  the  honey'd  cells 
Of  thistle  and  of  clover.      Noiseless  still, 
Flitting  from  bloom  to  bloom,  the  butterfly 
Feeds  on  the  dainty  sweets,  but  hoards  no  store 
Against  the  coming  storms  of  winter  months — 
Bright,  thoughtless  things,  that  glad  the  gazing  eye 
A  moment,  and  are  gone. 

Beneath  the  pines, 

I  lie  and  muse  and  watch  the  scene  outspread 
Alternately ;  each  hath  its  subtle  charm. 
Novy,  while  I  look,  my  errant  fancy  strays 
Far  from  the  wood  and  placid  stream  close  by  ; 
And  oft  in  strange  rebellion  would  assume 
Control  of  sight  that  leads  it  back  to  earth, 
For  here  is  beauty  it  were  mockery 


I IO  SYLVAN. 

For  man  to  shun.      Nature  has  been  lavish ; 

From  the  high  cliffs  where  cling  the  grappling  pines, 

Down  to  the  mirror'd  rocks  and  swaying  reeds, 

All  must  delight  and  satisfy  the  soul 

Of  him  who  worships  in  these  sylvan  shrines. 

Beyond  the  river  stretch  the  verdant  meads, 

Whereon  the  kine  are  grazing ;  silence  sways 

A  tyrant  sceptre,  for  no  sound  is  heard, 

Save  when  a  plaintive  low  at  intervals 

Comes  from  the  meadows,  yet  no  discord  this, 

But  seems  a  tone  in  nature's  harmony. 

To  me  these  are  familiar  haunts  and  loved ; 

Their  every  path  is  known,  each  shady  glen, 

Where  sunshine  dares  not  come ;  the  warmest  slopes, 

Where  bloom  the  earliest  flowers,  ere  winter's  snows 

Have  scarcely  gone,  and  first  the  violets 

Ope  their  blue  eyes  to  feel  the  light  again, 

And  the  anemones  star  all  the  sward, 

Till  Autumn  paints  her  fleeting  colors  here, 

And  leaves  the  knarled  trunks  naked  to  the  wind. 

Each  tree,  each  gray  and  moss-grown  rock;  the  vines 

That  droop  in  graceful  festoons  from  the  boughs — 


ELYWOOD.  1 1  I 

Whereon  bright  Ariel  might  swing  and  watch 
The  silvery  moon — the  thickets  by  the  stream, 
Where  bends  the  light  witch-hazel  o'er  the  bank ; 
Each  feathery  fern  and  spray  of  golden-rod, 
That  summer  strews  so  lavish,  seem  as  friends, 
And  in  their  silence  speak  with  words  as  clear 
As  ever  fell  from  tongue  of  eloquence ; 
But,  most  of  all,  upon  yon  towering  hill, 
Pine-covered  and  rock-riven,  I  could  look 
And  dream  away  a  life.      What  tales  the  winds — 
Ceaselessly  sighing  through  their  deep,  dark,  shades — 
They  tell,  as  year  by  year  goes  round,  and  still, 
Changeless  amid  change,  they  ever  stand  ! 

Oft  have  I  started  from  some  reverie  broke 
By  laughter  ringing  through  the  quiet  woods, 
And  strained  my  eyes  to  catch  the  sight  of  nymphs 
Sporting  in  these  retreats,  as  the  old  legends  tell 
Of  fair  Arcadian  groves  ;  but  naught  could  see 
More  than  some  thoughtless  children  by  the  stream, 
Unawed  by  their  own  echoes  ;  for  no  more 
The  wood-gods  haunt  the  forest  as  in  days 
When  life  was  still  untrammeled  by  the  laws 


112  SYLVAN. 

Which  strive  to  fashion  all  by  one  set  mould, 
And  leave  no  nature  in  the  man.     In  vain 
Ye  look  for  shaggy  Pan  and  his  gay  train 
Of  jolly  bacchanals;  no  more  you  hear 
His  reedy  syrinx,  flute-like,  echoing  now, 
And  see  the  wild  dance  in  the  shady  glades; 
And  fawn  and  satyr  all  have  disappeared. 
Those  days  are  past — the  golden,  glorious  days 
Of  legend  and  of  myth.      Yet  he  who  loves 
The  forests  and  the  streams  with  true  devotion 
Longs  for  this  age  again,  which  ne'er  will  come, 
With  all  its  beings  of  the  border  world, 
That  lived  in  fountains  and  in  gloomy  caves, 
And  peopled  every  grove  with  forms  poetic. 

Ye  marvel  at  the  art  this  age  produced, 
Its  marble  temples  and  its  palaces ; 
Its  statues,  God-like  in  their  majesty, 
And  all  the  fragments  that  the  centuries 
Have  spared  from  countless  devastating  wars 
And  their  barbaric  pillage ;  yet  the  page 
Of  history  is  plain.     They  sought  not  wealth, 
But  beauty ;  striving  to  realize  in  form 


ELY  WOOD.  113 

The  pure  ideal  of  exalted  mind, 

Unbiased,  warped  not  by  a  culture  false, 

And  that  penurious  grasping  after  gold 

Which  fawns  to  folly  and  crude  patronage. 

Not  art  alone,  but  perished  with  it  here, 

The  grand  old  epics  of  heroic  song, 

Not  less  in  simple  dignity  and  power. 

And  they  who  sought  for  truth  renouncing  life, 

To  gain  such  feeble  light  as  slowly  comes 

From  meditation  and  self-abnegation — 

Buddh,  Socrates,  his  true  disciple,  Plato, 

Zeno  and  Aristotle ;  scarce  less  than  these, 

In  later  age,  Mahomet — all  are  names 

The  world  must  reverence  till  the  end  of  time. 

Long  centuries  must  lapse  ere  spirits  bold 
And  high  as  these  shall  rise,  and  once  again, 
Reclaim  the  world  from  its  desponding  way. 
When  avarice  is  surfeited,  and  wealth 
Is  weary  of  its  gaudy  ostentation — 
Vainest  of  all  delusions — and  luxury 
Has  shaken  off  effeminating  robes,  • 
And  the  tired  earth  shall  pause  for  rest  again, 


114  SYLVAN. 

And  mind  take  up  the  sceptre  swayed  by  gold, 
Teaching  mankind  to  follow  Nature's  ways 
And  seek  its  truths  ;  renouncing  a  false  life 
As  it  would  spurn  a  false  god  from  its  faith. 
Till  such  a  state  the  future  nations  claim, 
Nor  art  nor  deep  philosophy  can  reign. 


But  I  have  wandered  ;  and  the  trackless  ways 
Where  meditation  strays  through  the  dim  past, 
Now  hazy  with  its  many  centuries, 
Dealing  with  forms  long  perished  from  our  life, 
Are  not  so  clear  to  me  as  the  cool  woods, 
Where  every  path  is  known. 

Here,  oft  alone, 

I  come  when  the  harsh,  grating  world  would  weigh 
Too  heavy  on  the  heart,  and  bruise  the  springs 
Of  feeling.      Lying  here,  I  can  forget 
All  save  the  beauty  of  the  scene  below — 
Its  soothing  stillness  and  the  peaceful  hours — 


ELYWOOD.  1 1  5 

And  yet,  the  city  with  its  busy  throng, 
Is  scarce  a  bow-shot  from  this  shady  bank, 
And  through  the  vista  of  the  winding  stream 
The  gray  church-spire  is  outlined  on  the  sky. 

JULY,  1885. 


Il6  SYLVAN. 


GATHERING  ARBUTUS. 
I. 

O,  what  can  equal  a  bright  day  in  Spring, 

A  drive  to  the  mountains  when  Winter  has  fled 
Like  a  white-whinged  phanton,  or  echoes  that  ring 
Through  the  groom  of  the  forest  and  fill  us  with 

dread  ; 
When  Nature  comes   forth  from    her   drear   hiding 

place, 
Free  and  smiling  once  more  from  a  snowy  embrace  ; 

When  the  streamlets  that  play  in  the  rugged  ravines, 
Leap  with  unfettered  grace  to  the  valleys  below, 

As  with  innocent  wonder  inquiring  the  means 

That  had  loosed  them,  ice-bound,  and  made   them 
to  flow 

With  merrier  song  from  their  high  rocky  home, 

Like  children  set  free  in  wild-wood  to  roam. 


GATHERING    ARBUTUS.  117 

When  the  mist  gathers  soft  o'er  the  far  distant  hills, 
Till  they  blend  with  the  sky  in  obscurity  dim — 

And  with  dreamiest  beauty  the  whole  landscape  fills  ; 
When  the  wind  murmurs  soft  through  the  pines 
dark  and  grim, 

Then  seek  silent  nature,  her  lone,  shady  haunts, 

Where  wild  flowers  grow  nor  vain  fashion  flaunts. 

II. 

When  fair  Aurora  scarce  yet  had  oped 

The  roseate  gates  of  dewy  morn, 
And  Phoebus  shining  from  the  East  had  hoped 

To  gladden  earth  with  day  new  born, 
All  where  prepared  to  leave  the  city's  bounds 
To  revel  in  sweet  nature's  rounds  : 

Such  bright  young  faces  beaming  with  delight, 
Eyes  sparkling  in  their  very  happiness  ; 

Warm,  glowing  heart's  love  ne'er  could  slight 
If  tempted  far  by  their  own  loveliness — 

For  they,  too,  wore  the  spring-time  beauty, 

And  youth  had  crowned  them  with  his  gayety. 


Il8  SYLVAN. 

We  now  had  reached  the  rugged  woodland, 
Had  reached  the  mountains  wild  and  budding 

To  life  their  branches  rough  and  grand, 

And  trunks  that  through  long  centuries  standing, 

Storms  born  from  northern  seas  had  braved, 

And  winds  that  through  their  boughs  fierce  raved. 

We  paused  by  the  spring  from  the  hill-side  flowing, 
On  the  green  mossy  bank  we  there  sat  down, 

Where  nature,  solemn,  silent,  throwing 
O'er  all  her  sadness,  seemed  to  drown 

All  merriment  within  her  stillness, 

And  our  light  hearts  in  thought  depress. 


III. 


The  hawthorn  buds  just  opening  lay, 

Like  snowflakes  on  the  half  bare  limbs, — 

Which  spring,  forgetful  of  the  day 
Had  left  alone,  nor  beauty  dims — 

And  golden-rods  were  waving  by  the  streams 

Bright  sceptres  of  the  nymphic  realms. 


GATHERING    ARBUTUS.  lip 

The  dreamy,  dogwood  blossoms  spread 
Their  pale,  soft  petals  in  the  light, 

And  where  the  path  by  the  water  led, 
The  lilies  there,  yet  hid  from  sight, 

Were  sending  up  their  leaves  to  be 

Borne  on  the  waves  so  gracefully. 


But  fairer  still  than  these,  by  far, 

Half  hid  beneath  its  leaves  of  green — 

Where  mossy  rocks  its  charms  would  bar- 
The  sweet  Arbutus  flower  is  seen  ; 

So  modest,  yet  so  beautiful  it  lay 

Down  close  to  earth  in  clustering  spray. 


I  almost  shrank  from  robbery 

Which  seemed  so  cruel  and  unkind, 

When  it  was  striving  willingly 
Earth  to  adorn  with  life  refined— 

The  wild  and  barren  heath  to  dress 

In  simple,  graceful  loveliness. 


I2O  SYLVAN. 

I,  bending  down,  would  pluck  the  flower 
From  many  a  crevice  out  of  sight, 

While  Vera,  standing  near,  the  dower 
Within  her  dainty  hand  clasped  tight, 

Burst  forth  in  admiration  wild, 

And  tighter  pressed  the  captive  mild. 


And  as  she  thanked  me  in  delight, 
Her  rapture  caring  not  to  hide, 

Or  blush  that  came  in  rosy  might 
Upon  her  fair  young  cheek,  or  tide 

Of  pleasure  flowing  fond  and  free, 

All  whispering  love  so  innocently. 


Not  far  below  us  in  the  marsh, 
Jack-in-the-pulpit  sternly  stood, 

And  loud  he  preached  in  numbers  harsh 
To  dreamy  list'ners  of  the  wood  ; 

The  oak-tree  nodded  its  assent, 

While  hemlock  wondered  what  he  meant. 


GATHERING    ARBUTUS.  121 

And  such  a  man  in  such  a  dress  ! 

I  know  not  yet  his  theme  or  text, 
Nor  what  great  truth  sought  to  express ; 

How  long  he  talked  or  what  came  next, 
All  were  unheard,  for  what  cared  we 
Both  bound  in  love  so  happily. 

The  sun  sank   low  behind'  the  ridge  ; 

The  shadows  lengthen'd  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  far  away  a  golden  bridge 

Seemed  linking  hill  and  mount  again, 
While  all  below  lay  shadowy 
And  lost  to  color's  varied  play. 

We  wander'd  back,  the  party  gained, 
And  homeward  then  again  we  started, 

While  merriment  through  forest  reigned 
And  Flora  from  her  haunts  was  frighted ; 

The  gloomy  pine-trees  sighed — farewellJ 

And  dreamy  woods  their  echos  swell. 

Gettysburgh,  Pa.,  1879. 


122  SYLVAN. 


THE  ADVENT  OF  SUMMER. 

From  tropic  climes  resplendent  with  the  sun, 

Thy  gilded,  glittering  car  rolls  swiftly  on  : — 
The  herald  of  bright  days  and  season  born 

For  southward,  where  forever  cease  to  dawn 
Sweet  nature's  verdant  forms  and  brightest  hues 

And  like  an  odor  breathed  from  Indian  isles, 
Rich  with  the  balmy  breath  of  spicy  dews, 

Thou  comest  to  us,  O,  season  of  fair  hopes. 


THE  POET'S  PATH.  123 


THE  POET'S  PATH. 

The  silent  woods  whose  shadows  now  invite    • 
My  straying  steps  from  highway's  dust  and  light, 
Can  teach  me  more  than  peopled  city's  hosts, 
Or  all  the  learning  that  a  century  boasts. 

The  trees,  the  rocks,  the  grass,  the  bursting  flowers, 
And  e'en  the  solitudes,  the  gloomy  bowers 
Of  interlacing  boughs  and  clambering  vines, 
Speak  each  their  language  if  the  soul  inclines. 

The  lofty  mind  is  most  alone  when  in 
The  whirl  of  multitudes,  the  ceaseless  din 
Of  jostling  commerce  and  the  bustling  mart, 
Where  contemplation  has  but  ill  a  part. 

But  wind  and  wood  and  undulating  plain — 
The  star-illumined  vault,  the  battling  main 
That  beats  with  fury  on  a  rocky  shore — 
Are  sympathies,  like  friends  long  loved  of  yore. 


124  SYLVAN. 

But  hard  the  fate,  gloomy  the  hostile  path 
That  he  must  lead,  and  brave  the  ignorant  wrath 
Of  ingrate  foes  whose  souls  are  naught  but  clay, 
And  stupid,  beast-like,  stand  and  hoarsely  bray. 

Envy,  her  dread  companion,  sullen  Hate, 

By  his  advancing  footsteps  lie  in  wait, 

To  hurl  foul  calumny  upon  his  deeds, 

Nor  caring  aught  how  deep  his  nature  bleeds. 

> 

Then  what  is  homage,  what  is  earthly  fame 
That  man  should  strive  to  win  himself  a  name  ? 
And  woo  the  muse  to  aid  his  heavenward  flight, 
And  build  his  name  above  oblivious  night? 

O,  better  far,  the  days  of  peaceful  love, 

Than  toil  and  struggles  that  will  joyless  prove, 

And  fill  youth  with  unrest  and  aging  care 

When  life  should  know  naught  but  the  pure  and  fair. 


NATURES    FREEDOM.  125 


NATURE'S    FREEDOM. 


Who  ever  drank  from  crystal  founts  that  gush 
From  mountains  wild,  where  calm  and  hush 
Spread  over  all  the  spirit  of  their  rest, 
And  thirsts  for  stagnant  draughts  with  former  zest? 


Who  in  the  freedom  of  his  humble  state 
Longs  for  the  splendor  of  the  gilded  great  ? 
And  pines  away  in  sighing  for  the  place 
That  epmty  fashion  fills  but  to  disgrace  ? 


Who  ever  felt  the  fire  of  burning  love 
Thrill  to  his  touch,  and  farther  cared  to  prove 
The  callous  hearts  that  would  disdain  its  ways, 
Prefering  self,  and  lone  secluded  days  ? 


I 26  SYLVAN. 

Who  on  the  deep,  mysterious  wave  of  song 
Hath  felt  his  spirit  mount  above  the  throng, 
And  hurried  where  the  restful  shores  unfold, 
Looks  back  with  longing  for  the  greed  of  gold  ? 

Ambition  has  its  fire  which  naught  can  bind, 
And  rules  the  heart  with  eyes  to  justice  blind, 
And  sated  not  with  conquest  on  each  shore, 
Consumes  itself,  more  wretched  than  before. 

There  is  no  more  than  this,  to  be  content, 
And  let  the  mind  be  always  upward  bent ; 
No  matter  where  the  path,  each  leads  to  truth, 
And  gives  pure  peace  when  age  succeeds  to  youth. 

Then  seek  no  more  ;  -not  all  the  fabled  joys 
That  sensuous  Cyprus  in  her  rites  employs, 
Nor  Daphnean  groves  that  woo  with  wanton  sight, 
Can  him  estrange  who  once  has  felt  its  might. 


MORN.  127 


MORN. 

O,  thou  resplendent  morn ! 

Being  of  light  and  joy  supreme, 
O,  how  the  earth  as  from  a  dream, 

Greets  thee  as  thou  adorn 

The  hills  from  darkness  born, 

And  up  the  sky  thy  glories  stream  ! 

Each  fiery,  gleaming  light 

That  burns  in  the  dark  sky,  is  led 
To  rest  where  night  has  quickly  fled, 

And  all  her  gloomy  might — 

In  swift  and  sure  affright — 

Vanishing  as  thy  beams  outspread. 

How  sweet  the  songs  of  birds 

That  greet  the  tranquil  morn  now  breaking! 

And  roseate  nature  from  her  sleep  awaking! 
The  distant  low  of  herds  ; 
The  belt  that  brightly  girds 

The  East,  its  joyous  way  betaking  ! 


128  SYLVAN. 

The  wild  fowl  startled  in  the  brake, 

Sends  forth  its  long  shrill  cry  and  hastens 
To  North-land  where  the  dim,  cool  glens 

Of  sombre  pine-trees,  take 

The  deep  reflected  lake 

Within  their  dark  impenetrable  fens. 


The  mist  along  the  river 

Gleams  with  the  light  of  rising  beams, 
And  like  an  airy  flood  now  seems 

To  hang  above  and  quiver 

All  radiant,  and  ever 

To  wane  along  the  murmuring  streams. 


The  bellowing  herds,  the  hills 

All  sparkling  with  the  dew,  eager 
They  climb,  as  if  to  greet  more  near 

The  rising  orb  that  fills 

Forest  and  vale,  then  dwells 

In  glory  while  the  worlds  revere. 


MORN.  '  129 

What  joy  to  some  lone  heart, 

Saddened  by  grief,  or  disappointed 

Hopes,  thou  bringest,  though  peace  has  fled, 

As  brightly,  quickly  dart 

Thy  red  beams  in  the  Orient  apart, 
Illumining  their  lives  so  dead  ! 


130 


NATURE  HEALETH. 

Can  the  tired  heart  ever  find 
Full  companionship  in  mind, 
That  shall  quiet  all  unrest 
With  the  noblest  and  the  best  ? 
Can  the  lore  of  ages  stay 
Longings  for  a  purer  ray, 
That  shall  fill  the  soul  with  peace 
Give  to  earthly  cares  release  ; 
All-sufficient,  filling  all 
Though  the  direst  ills  befall  ? 
Vain  one,  no.     Learn  this  as  truth 
Nature  can  alone  lost  youth 
Reinstate  in  care-worn  breasts. 
Why  not  heed  its  kind  behests? 
Delve  down  deep  or  upward  soar, 
Beauty  find  unknown  before  : 
Music  poets  never  wrote 


NATURE    HEALETH. 

Gushes  from  the  songster's  throat 
Breaks  upon  the  morning  air 
Melodies  no  transcript  bear, 
And  will  raise  thy  burdened  heart 
Out  of  grief  and  sorrow's  part. 
Walk  into  the  star-lit  morn 
Ere  the  sun — the  Orient-born — 
Scatters  all  the  sparkling  dew, 
Read  its  lessons  ever  new — 
Older  than  the  ages  primal 
And  the  wheeling  orbs  coeval. 
Every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass 
Strives  to  whisper  as  you  pass, 
Alchemy  of  life  and  death — 
And  their  restoration  hath 
Here  embodied  every  change, 
In  the  elemental  range. 

None  my  secrets  ever  know 
Who  the  world  will  not  forego, 
And  the  hermit  in  his  cave 
Will  excel  the  grasping  slave. 
I  will  teach  you,  sayeth  she, 


132 


If  alone  you  follow  me  ; 
No  divison  I  will  take, 
Full  surrender  you  must  make  ; 
Walk  with  me  and  clasp  my  hand, 
I  will  close  the  magic  band, 
And  intuitive  will  teach 
Wonders  that  no  art  can  reach  ; 
Unseen  lips  will  whisper  thee 
Of  the  spheric  mystery, 
And  the  eternal  course  of  things 
Tending  to  concentric  rings  ; 
How  each  swaying  pine  and  oak 
Form  in  part  this  cosmic  yoke  ; 
How  the  lowliest  thing  of  earth — 
Like  the  proudest  hath  its  birth ; 
As  the  change  eternal  goes 
Each  from  out  the  other  flows — 
All  dependent,  all  depend, 
One  must  to  the  other  lend  ; 
And  no  conflict  here  is  found, 
Merging  and  emergent  round. 
This  I  teach  to  all  who  come 
To  the  groves  and  silent  roam, 


NATURE    HEALETH.  133 

And  will  add  the  poet's  tongue 

That  my  promptings  may  be  sung.       * 

Woo  the  world  no  more  for  rest, 

I  will  show  thee  what  is  best, 

And  infuse  thy  soul  with  love 

That  no  earthly  change  can  move. 


1 34  SYLVAN. 


LIGHT. 
I. 

The  morning  breaks  !  and  lo,  from  out  the  gates 
Of  purple  Orient,  the  god  of  day 
Bursts  forth  in  gorgeous,  flaming  panoply  ! 
His  light  no  sluggish  slumberer  awaits, 
But  mounts  from  lowly  wood  to  highest  peak 
Dispelling  gloom  and  strengthening  the  weak. 
O'er  fields  of  waving  grain  and  streams  'and  lakes", 
Illuming  worlds,  his  kingly  way  he  takes, 
And  pausing  not  until  his  labors  done — 
His  mission  ended  and  his  course  is  run — 
Then  dying  on  the  ocean's  foam-tossed  breast 
Invites  the  weary  to  repose  and  rest. 

II. 

The  poet  speaks !  and  lo,  from  out  the  soul, 
A  flood  of  song  bursts  forth  like  minstrelsy, 
And  many  a  burden'd  heart's  made  glad  and   free. 


LIGHT.  135 

The  passions  soften,  and  the  far  off  goal 
Of  high  endeavor  seems  within  the  reach — 
And  truely,  too,  if  seer's  words  can  teach — 
Of  lowest  destiny  and  humblest  power  ; 
This  to  the  ages  is  his  princely  dower  ; 
Beauty  and  light,  and  hope  and  consolation — 
Nor  is  stern  Truth  allowed  emancipation — 
All  nature  does  him  homage  for  he  leads 
Mankind  to  higher  life  and  nobler  deeds. 

Gross  matter  cannot  feed  our  very  life — 
The  soul — for  lust  and  hate  and  deadly  strife, 
Displace  the  good  within  if  left  alone, 
Nor  weath,  nor  fame  for  this  can  e'er  atone. 


Occasional  Pieces. 


TITUS  LIVIUS— A  REQUIEM. 


Written  for   the  "Cremation  Exercises"  of   the  class  of  '83  at 
Pennsylvania  College,  June,  1880. 


O,  thou  of  Latuim  loved  in  ages  gone ! 
When  time  was  young,  nor  yet  the  radiant  dawn 
Of  centuries  was  clouded  by  dark  wrong : — 
When  Sappho  had  in  Greece  awoke  the  song 
Which  echoed  round  her  thousand  isles  of  lore ; 
When  Aneas,  his  wand'rings  just  before, 
The  great  Cis-Alpine  bard  had  sounded  far, 
And  mingled  with  the  din  of  Eastern  war 
Which  lighted  Troy  with  many  a  blazing  ship, 
Till  god  like  Hector  passed  from  lip  to  lip, 
And  Grecian  warriors  and  their  deeds  sublime 
Were  heard  in  every  age,  in  every  clime  ; 
And  highest  honor  to  their  names  was  owned, 
And  heros  with  immortal  gods  were  throned ; — 


I4O  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Then  thou  arose,  O,  Clio,  sacred  muse, 
And  taught  the  Roman  thy  exalted  use ; 
Taught  him  the  story  of  his  nation's  birth, 
Its  rise,  its  progress,  battles,  wars,  and  worth, 
From  that  far  time  when  he  from  Ilian  flames 
Trough  Aegean  sea,  had  fled  to  Latin  realms, 
Bearing  the  household  gods  remembered  still 
'Mid  war's  dire  fortune,  to  the  sacred  hill  ; 
Till  Dursius  from  Italian  power  was  torn, 
And  Roman  arms  beyond  the  Rhine  were  borne. 

We  kneel,  O,  muse,  before  thy  altar  low, 
With  hearts  bowed  down,  and  spirits  that  aglow 
With  joy  and  youthful  vigor  follows  fast 
Through  every  scene  and  deeds  which  are  the  last 
We  own,  great  Jove,  thy  most  exalted  power, 
The  fate's  decree,  nor  urge  thy  wrathful  hour 
With  speed  to  come. 

In  Tempe's  lovely  vale, 
From  Ossa  to  Olympus'  height,  the  wail 
Of  sorrow  rang,  for  here  Apollo  lone 
Had  come ;  the  god  in  deep  dejection  thrown 


TITUS    LIVIUS — A  REQUIEM.  14! 

His  favorite  haunt  once  more  had  visited, 

For  thither  had  his  sorrowing  footsteps  led. 

And  now  his  lyre  had  tuned  ;  the  chords  were  wrung, 

With  quivering  hand  ;  a  mournful  dirge  was  sung 

For  him  whom  Clio  loved  and  early  taught 

How  to  narrate  great  deeds  with  valor  fraught, 

In  days  when  Rome  her  greatest  glory  knew, 

And  Art  and  War  their  blended  roses  strew 

O'er  fair  Italia,  'till  the  Parian  mines 

Brought  forth  their  matchless  gods  in  southern  climes, 

To  grace  the  land,  the  wonder  of  the  age  ; 

And  Scipio,  the  victor  and  the  sage 

Paraded  Rome  in  grand,  triumphal  show, 

And   through    the   streets   pressed   eager   crowds   to 

know 

Of  conquests  on  the  Carthagenian  shore, 
And  rose  a  shout  unknown  to  her  before. 

When  his  last  notes  were   hushed,   the  echo 

flown, 

And  he  with  nature  there  was  left  alone — 
Bright  Phoebus  with  his  gilded  chariot  sunk 
Beneath  the  far  Atlantic's  wave,  still  drunk 


142  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

With  splendor  where  the  light  had  lingered  still ; 
His  trembling  fingers  struck  a  grieving  thrill, 
And  as  it  fell  upon  the  Penean  wave, 
The  dying  murmur  found  its  only  grave 
Upon  the  ocean's  broad  and  troubled  breast, 
Where  this  sad  strain  was  drifting,  slowly,  blest 
With  its  escape  from  such  a  scene.     The  tress 
Along  the  bank  unmoved  by  the  breeze, 
Bowed  down  until  they  touched  the  water  where, 
The  gathering  shades  had  turned  to  blackness  there, 
Its  gleaming  spray. 

Such  was  the  ancient  song 
That  told  the  grief  of  gods,  the  muse's  wrong, 
When  he  who  now  before  us  on  the  pyre 
First  fled  from  life  and  all  its  fond  desire, 
To  sail  upon  the  gloomy  Stygian  lake 
Till  dawn,  should  with  its  brightest  lustre  break 
Upon  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed,  clear, 
And  hail  the  unknown  shore  with  joy  more  near. 
This  was  the  golden  age  of  Roman  power, 
That  knew  no  bounds,  and  to  the  latest  hour 
Both  song  and  story  give  immortal  praise  : 


TITUS    LIVIUS — A  REQUIEM.  143 

Then  she  her  grandest  triumphs  sought  to  raise 

In  marble  palaces  ;  and  yet  has  towered 

The  Colliseum  with  such  beauty  dowered, 

That  now  the  moon-beams  all  the  night  watch  play 

Through  rents  in  this  vast  ruin,  where  the  gay 

Throngs  of  Rome  met  to  witness  scenes  inhuman ; 

When  victors  by  the  rites  of  war's  dire  plan 

Brought  home  the  spoils  of  battle  from  the  Rhone, 

And  captives  from  the  Danube,  who  alone 

In  the  blood-stained  arena  lions  fought 

Mid  cheers  that  echoed  round  her  walls,  bought 

By  him,  torn  from  his  native  land  and  free, 

Thus  butchered  for  Rome's  high  festivity. 

And  such  it  was ;  so  if  the  pilgrim  halt 

Within  its  desolation,  deem  it  no  fault 

If  he  be  tempted  to  digress,  in  praise 

And  admiration,  soaring  to  heights  that  raise 

Its  glory  and  its  shame  above  the  dust 

Where  its  far-reaching  arches  with  the  rust 

Of  time  have  crumbled. 

Why  should  we  not  bear 
This  offering  to  the  gods,  and  with  the  glare 


144  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Of  torch  and  flame,  light  up  the  nightly  sky, 
Wafting  to  regions  of  infinity 
This  wanderer  of  our  youth  mid  classic  lore, 
Where  oft  ambitious  feet  have  trod  before 
Seeking  the  paths  of  glory  ? 

One  moment 

Let  my  sad  theme  a  various  thought  augment ; 
One  moment  let  it  turn  to  those  who  long, 
Have  hand  in  hand  the  Gallic,  grievous  wrong, 
Together  plodded  through,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
"  Arms  and  the  man  I  sing  ;"  and  here  to-day 
Have  triumphed  in  the  grandest  fight  of  all, 
And  witness  now  this  last  and  final  fall, — 
May  each  endeavor  meet  reality, 
And  thy  ambitions,  hopes  of  bright  futurity, 
Life's  noblest  work  engage  ;  and  now  farewell ! 
Bright,  happy  scenes ;  ah,  who  can  tell 
The  pangs  that  long  may  linger  in  the  heart, 
Where  first  we  feel,  how  soon  from  all  to  part. 


AMBITION.  145 


AMBITION. 

Youth  yearns  for  greatness  as  the  bee, 
By  winter's  storms  incarcerate, 

Sighs  for  the  spring-time  to  be  free 
And  summer  blossoms  all  too  late. 

Beneath  the  rustic's  homely  garb 

The  mind  oft  mounts  beyond  its  sphere, 

And  toil  and  care  but  form  a  barb 
To  urge  endeavor"  from  the  rear. 

Scorn  not  the  poor  ;  they  labor  best — 
Though  humble  be  their  station  here, 

And  pride  would  grind  them  in  the  dust — 
Who  serve  with  patience,  deaf  to  fear. 

But  they  who  fire  sedition's  pile 

With  envious  hearts  and  lawless  hands- 
Disowning  right  and  truth  the  while, 
Can  never  rise  where  honor  stands. 


146  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


THE  FALLEN. 


;  The  moths  eat  the  ermine,  and  the  world  kisses  the  leper  on 
both  cheeks." 


O,  lift  them  up — the  helpless  ones — 
They  are  not  wholly  lost  but  fallen  ; 
And  would  the  hand  that  always  shuns, 
Reach  to  their  depth,  the  life  begun 
In  infamy's  revolting  way, 
Might  still  be  rescued  ere  the  cloud 
Of  sin  o'ershadow  all  its  day, 
And  death  alone  and  misery's  shroud 
Be  all  that's  left  to  save  them  from  the  crowd. 

In  pity  stay  the  scorning  tongue  ! 
Know  ye  the  grief  they  inward  bear ; 
How  ag"bny's  hot  tears  have  wrung 


THE  FALLEN.  147 

Their  hearts  though  lost  to  all  that's  fair? 
Let  him  first  fling  the  stone  whose  deeds 
Know  not  reproach,  nor  from  the  path 
Has  strayed  where  willing  pleasure  leads  ; 
How  great  the  mercy,  small  the  wrath 
Would  then  encounter  those  who  heedless  hath  ! 


Help  them  to  rise  to  honor's  place  ; 
Help  them  to  gain  what  they  have  lost 
Perhaps  the  wretchedness  ye  trace 
Is  but  the  price  that  passion  cost, 
That  gushed  from  feeling's  deepest  fount, 
And  yielding  to  its  soothing  thrill, 
Forgot  the  height  it  had  to  mount — 
Forgot  the  sovereign  power  of  will — 
In  that  wild  clasp  which  to  release  would  kill. 


Too  deeply  human  !     Ah,  the  fault 
So  few  can  share  with  self  and  soul 
Shut  in  hard  breasts,  who  never  halt 
Nor  look  behind  upon  the  goal 


148  OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 

The  outcast  follow  driven  down 
From  deep  to  deeper  infamy  ; 
And  who  can  blame  them  if  they  drown 
Their  woes,  their  deep  despondency 
In  suicidal  act, — they  would  be  free. 


Think  you  the  cold  and  scheming  lives, 
That  circumspect  with  godly  mien, 
Parade  in  every  walk  that  thrives, 
And  fawn  and  flatter  when  they're  seen, 
But  in  the  secret,  sacred  way 
Of  home  and  calm  domestic  joys, 
Stab  in  the  dark,  the  traitor  play 
To  every  impulse  love  alloys, 
Each  sympathy  and  feeling  strife  destroys  ; 


Think  you  their  lot  an  envied  one  ? 

Deem  not  their  sin,  their  crime  less  deep 

Because  the  evil  that  is  done 

Goes  not  into  the  street  to  weep. 

Not  less  the  trampled  heart  will  bleed  ; 


THE  FALLEN.  149 

Not  less  will  outraged  feeling  spurn 
The  venomed  tongue  whose  envious  greed 
On  all  its  blighting  breath  would  turn, 
Blind  to  all  right  where  justice  should  discern. 


These  are  the  assassins  of  the  heart  ; 
No  outward,  open  foe  that  scorn 
Deceptions  ways,  the  coward's  part ; 
But  lurking  in  the  quiet  morn 
Of  confidence,  sow  frightful  tares 
With  hand  so  fair  and  purpose  kind 
That  naught  of  its  low  object  bares 
To  trusting,  unsuspecting  mind  ; 
Yet  what  a  harvest  shall  the  future  find  ! 


Lone,  barren  hearts  from  which  no  more 

Spring  trust's  sweet  flowers  that  charm  the  sight, 

But  fade  upon  a  hostile  shore 

Where  every  whisper  in  the  night, 

And  each  caress,  is  feigned  love 


I5O  OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 

Schooled  in  deceit  but  to  betray ; 
Ah,  when  I  think  that  such  should  thrive, 
Doubt  will  arise  and  question  free  : 
Which  are  the  fallen,  which  have  strayed  away  ? 

And  still  they  bow  the  knee  to  Baal, 
With  homage  that  a  slave  would  spurn, 
Nor  ask  will  retribution  fail 
Secure  upon  the  course  they  run. 
O,  wretched,  self-deluded  soul, 
Still  one  tribunal  yet  remains — 
The  mind  its  terrors  will  unroll ; 
Remorse  consume  what  malice  gains, 
And  self-loathed  life  wreck  envy's  cherished  fanes. 


ALICE.  151 


ALICE. 


"I   had   rather  live  and  love  where  Death   is  king,  than   htve 
eternal  life  where  love  is  not." 


She's  gone,  they  say,  as  some  sweet  flower 

That  made  earth  smile  like  Eden's  bower, 
Till  we  forgot  the  winter's  storm, 

Forgot  that  grief,  in  one  short  hour, 

Could  blast  our  hopes  so  fond  and  warm, 
And  shroud  in  death  that  fairest  form, 

Not  made  for  earth,  but  Heaven's  dower. 

O,  who  can  tell  what  feelings  rise, 

What  throes  of  grief,  what  yearning  sighs 
With  her  dear  name  are  breathed  in  vain  ? 

What  words  can  speak,  what  suppliant  eyes 
Can  half  portray  the  minds  long  train 
Of  hope  and  fear,  of  joy  and  pain  ? 

The   angels  weep  when  nature  dies. 


52  OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 

We  miss  thee  as  the  genial  day — 
When  sunshine  flooded  all  our  way — 

That's  followed  by  the  icy  storms 
Of  winter,  night  and  gloom  and  gray ; 

Whose  influence  no  longer  warms 

The  apathy  of  our  cold  forms — 
A  warmth  and  beauty  lost  for  aye. 

The  snow  that  falls  upon  thy  mound, 

And  shrouds  thy  lovely  image  round, 
Is  but  an  emblem  of  thy  soul 

In  purity  to  softly  bound. 

O,  who  could  dream  that  fate  would  roll, 
With  chilling  hand  from  utmost  pole, 

Such  floods  of  grief  ?     All  hopes  are  drowned. 

For  him  to  whom  thy  upward  flight 
Brings  deepest  care  and  lonely  night, 

Our  strongest  sympathy  is  moved. 
O,  friend,  good  cheer ;  this  sorrow's  blight 

Time  will  atone,  and  she  thou  loved 

Will  reappear  to  thee  bereaved, 
In  those  frail  forms  of  love's  young  light. 


ALICE.  153 

And  in  their  lives  not  long  begun 

There  is  a  hope,  a  joy  not  won 

Unhedged  by  care,  for  here  our  lives 

Find  a  soft  echo,  as  the  sun 

When  faded  in  the  west,  still  shines 
In  the  pale  moon — one  flower  fades, 

Another  lovelier  blooms  again. 


154  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 


I  strew  no  flowers  upon  the  dead  to-day ; 

Can  human  valor  sink  with  human  clay  ? 
Their  deeds  remain — all  that  they  gave 
For  liberty,  no  earthly  grave 

Confines  or  fetters,  for  the  patriot  soul 

Surrendered  not  th'  immortal  with  its  dole. 


And  as  the  years  go  on,  and  History's  tree 

Spreads  its  broad  limbs  from  gulf  to  either  sea — 
And  peopled  millions  fill  the  lands 
Now  ravaged  o'er  by  savage  bands — 

Each  blow,   each  life  that  freedom's  cause  can 
claim, 

Shall  from  the  nation  draw  increasing  fame. 


MEMORIAL    DAY.  155 

The  heart  must  hold  the  sacred  memory, 
Else  rites  prescribed  are  hollow  mockery ; 

No  beauty  lend  nor  lessons  teach 

That  will  to  future  ages  reach, 
If  minds  ungrateful  to  the  debt  they  owe, 
Seek  to  dismiss  it  by  a  flaunting  show. 


And  still,  this  outward  homage  that  is  given, 
As  long  as  tears  from  widowed  eyes  are  driven, 

Cannot  amiss  be  ever  deemed; 

But  truest  honer  never  streamed 
From  martial  drums  and  wreaths  that  quickly  fade, 
And  festal  garb  that  follows  in  parade. 


This  must  not  be  ;  the  nation  that's  reborn 
From  war's  fierce  womb,  in  conflict  torn, 

Shall  higher  mount  and  place  their  names 
Beyond  what  chance  and  change  assumes; 
And  Plymouth  will  with  Jamestown  then  unite, 
And  Liberty  build  altars  on  each  site. 


156  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

I  strew  no  flowers ;  the  heart  when  feeling  most 
Would  not  its  grief  and  reverence  lightly  boast 

In  emblems  that  from  custom  start ; 

And  though  this  day  be  set  apart, 
It  seems  more  fit  for  me,  if  in  my  song 
I  help  one  mind,  aspiring,  from  the  throng. 


1885. 


157 


BYRON. 


He  touched  his  harp  and  nations  heard,  entranced. 

—Pollock. 


O,  bard  immortal,  if  thy  ill-starred  life 

Was  not  conformed  to  this  most  rigid  world; 

If  thy  impetuous  soul  was  ever  rife 

With  warring  doubts,  daring  to  speak  what  hurl'd 
The  malice  of  an  envious  time  unfurl'd 

Upon  thy  brow  sublime,  fair  genius  to  enshrine 

Her  brightest  gem — from  country  self  exiled, 
Wandering  in  every  land — sought  thee  alone;  * 

We  can  forgive  thy  faults,  thy  gifts  so  brightly  shone. 

Thine  was  a  burning,  ever  restless  spirit, 
Seeming  as  if  Prometheus  had  inflamed 

Thee,  too,  with  heavenly  fire,  and  boldly  sent  it 
Glowing  through  thy  every  line ;  and  unreclaimed, 
The  wild  torents  of  thy  soul — nor  ever  chained — 


158  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Burst  forth  from  their  deep  source  unceasingly. 
Yet  shall  we  look  beyond  thy  life  defamed ; 

Beyond  the  clouds  that  hang  so  blightingly 
Causing  their  gloom  to  gather  o'er  thy  verse, 
^  Like  some  foreboding  spectre,  though  unseen, 
Sapping  thy  life,  yet  felt  the  doubly  worse  ; — 

Justice  will  come  and  save  thy  honor's  sheen. 

Dying  at  last  for  liberty  and  right, 

Greece  holds  thee  ever  as  her  cherished  son ; 

Though  thy  clay  rests  not  on  her  ancient  site — 
Nor  monument  points  to  the  good  there  done, 
And  the  heroic  spirit  of  the  race  is  gone — 

When  freedom's  name  is  whispered  by  the  bold, 

Thine  shall  have  power,  e'en  as  the  dead  of  old. 


BANQUET    SONGS.  159 


BANQUET  SONG. 

Let  the  dear  old  time's  we've  spent 
Mid  these  honored  halls, 

Be  recalled  with  glad  content, 
As  the  lamp-light  falls 

Softly  o'er  this  festive  scene, 

Filled  with  pleasure,  joy  serene. 

Cho. — Hail,  hail!     This  glad  to-night ! 

Let  our  hearts  join  with  delight — 
Banquet,  song  and  merriment — 
May  long  live  this  bright  present. 

Bacchus  is  our  king  to-night, 

God  of  mirth  and  song, 
And  we'll  pledge  with  chalice  bright, 

Friendship  true  and  strong — 
For  these  moments,  n'er  forgot, 
Form  of  life  its  brightest  spot. 


l6O  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Who  shall  quell  this  flowing  tide  ? 

For  our  spirits  free 
Banish  trouble,  cares  deride. 

Mid  such  company; 
And  again,  with  bursts  of  pleasure, 
Rings  our  song  of  gayest  measure. 

May  we  often  meet  again 

In  the  bright  To  BE, 
And  recall  with  happy  strain 

Days  of  thoughtless  glee. 
Yes,  let  friendship's  goblet  flow 
With  youth's  purest,  sweetest  glow. 

Pennsylvania  College. 


NORMIA.  l6l 


NORMIA. 

How  dare  I  call  from  out  her  home  of  light 
The  muse  of  song  to  grace  this  humble  flight? 
This  simple  tribute  to  a  name  unknown, 
Save  from  the  lips  of  those  who  spoke  alone 
The  eulogy  of  tend'rest  hope  and  praise, 

And  came  with  willing  feet  to  place  with  love 
Their  off'rings  on  the  shrine  of  friendship's  days, 

The  last,  but  sad  devotion  life  can  prove. 

A  stranger's  hand  essays  what  friends  would  write, 
And  through  the  gloom  and  mystery  and  night, 
That  shrouds  the  form  wrapped  in  eternal  sleep, 
Would  send  this  little  hope-song  of  the  deep, 
Nor  silent  sympathy  he  feels  for  all 
On  whom  may  rest  the  shadow  of  death's  pall. 

The  world's  philosophy,  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Ne'er  poured  a  balm  upon  the  sorrowing  heart, 

When  all  is  lost  that's  held  of  earth  most  dear, 
Nor  caused  from  pity's  eye  a  tear  to  start. 


1 62  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Perhaps  he,  too,  had  sorrows  that  the  throng 
Gazed  on  unmoved — shadows  that  linger  long 
Upon  the  sunlight  and  the  joys  of  life — 
But  buried  deep  beneath  the  whirl  and  strife 
Of  worldly  duty  and  the  round  of  years, 
That  call  for  action,  not  ignoble  tears  ; 

Yet  they  remain,  and  from  the  far-off  past 
Are  ever  wakened  when  the  chords  are  touched, 

E'en  by  another's  grief — such  as  this  last — 
That  stirs  the  slumb'ring  memory  of  the  loved. 


The  warp  and  woof  of  life  with  shuttles  swift, 
Or  slow  with  weary  years  that  scarcely  drift, 
Weave 'a  strange  tapistry  of  gloom  and  glow; 
There  stand  the  three  that  watch  its  figures  grow, 
The  dreaded  Parcae,  wrinkled,  old  and  gray, 
That  clip  the  threads  ere  half  is  spun  away. 

They  heed  not  hope,  nor  youth,  nor  beauty,  there, 
The  pictured  scene  though  filled  with  rarest  hue — 

What  care  they  for  the  griefs  we  have  to  bear  ? — 
Is  stopped  ere  life  with  midway  joy  is  due. 


THANKSGIVING.  163 


THANKSGIVING. 

Thanksgiving  !  rings  the  welcome  shout ! 
Joy  to  our  nation  !  Far  throughout 

Her  utmost  borders  let  it  sound  ! 

Thanks  to  our  God  the  nation's  bound 
In  love  again,  nor  war,  nor  doubt 

Bids  justice,  truth  and  right  confound. 


Let  all  the  thousand  birds  that  go 
To  tropic  climes  from  realms  of  snow, 

Proclaim  this  message  in  their  flight ; 

The  Lord  is  king  and  rules  with  might 
Upon  a  princely  throne  below, 

Nor  Liberty  his  altars  slight. 


An  hundred  years  have  sped  away, 
Of  peace  and  wars  in  dark  array, 


164  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

But  right  still  triumphs  and  more  bright 
Shines  progress  as  our  guiding  light — 
That  flame  which  lights  the  world  to-day, 
Rose  from  our  shoes,  resplendent  sight ! 

O,  star  of  hope,  to  patriot  heart ! 

Thy  beams  are  fairer  far  that  start 
From  Liberty's  emblazoned  crown, 
Than  Plead  lustre  of  renown, 

Or  those  that  triple  Orion  impart, 

Where  southern  skies  their  beauty  own. 

O,  never  may  the  ship  of  State 
Be  trusted  to  a  hand  which  fate 

Has  formed  unhallowed  ;  never  must 
Her  guidance  fall  to  heart  of  lust, 
Though  mind  of  power  and  learning  great 
Would  hold  the  helm  of  sacred  trust. 


THE  FATE  OF  TASSO.  1 65 


THE  FATE  OF  TASSO. 

O,  Italia,  land  of  art  and  song ! 

Home  of  the  muses^  in  thy  genial  clime 

Apollo  lingered  with  his  harp  sublime, 
And  taught  great  Dante  there  in  numbers  long — 
To  sing  as  that  blind  poet  of  the  Isle — 

Of  Hell  in  epic  strain  we  love  to  trace  ; 

Tuned  Petrarch's  lyre  love's  purest  theme  to  grace, 
Rienzi's  friend — Rome's  tribune  without  guile. 


To  thee,  O,  Tasso,  yet  'twas  left  to  sing 

Of  chivalry  ;    Jerusalem  Delivered  ; 

And  as  thy  genius  shone  the  age  revered  ; 
Wealth,  royalty,  the  court,  the  haughty  king, 
Owned  thy  true  worth  and  sought  thee  for  their  own; 

All  heaped  up  honors,  led  thy  ambition  high  ; 

The  end,  to  take  thy  freedom  and  deny 
The  fame  thy  pen  so  nobly  won. 


1 66  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Deserted  by  the  ones  who  praised  thee  most, 
The  prison  was  thy  doom,  the  grated  cell ; 
Thy  crime,  the  glory  known  to  ages  well.  , 

They  thought  by  iron  bars,  that  envious  host, 

To  confine  thy  great  soul  within  their  gloom  ; 
To  quinch  the  flame  that  shone  upon  the  world 
In  glowing  strains  ;  their  coward  malice  hurled 

When  none  were  left  to  shield  thee  from  that  doom. 


And  thou,  Alphonso,  name  linked  with  scorn, 
Thy  heart  was  barred  against  his  suppliant  song, 
Nor  touched  by  lines  which  told  his  cruel  wrong, 
But  left  him  in  his  dungeon,  sad,  forlorn, 
Until  his  mind  was  sickened  and  his  fancy 
i    Grew  dull  and  languid  with  long-wasting  years  ; 

Till  spirits  visit  his  sweet  dreams,  all  fears 
Dispell,  and  hope  returns  to  set  him  free. 

And  now,  Ferrara,  thou  art  desolate  ! 

Thy  gorgeous  palaces  are  in  the  dust ; 

Thy  splendor  soon  forgotten  with  the  rust 
Of  time,  thy  beauty  and  thy  power  once  great. 


THE  FATE  OF  TASSO.  l6/ 

The  wandering  owl  at  eve  with  wailing  cry, 

Perched  on  some  broken  wall,  now  hoots  in  scorn 
The  folly  of  thy  greatness,  as  to  warn 

The  traveller  from  such  baseless  phantasy. 


When  these  have  faded  with  their  pomp  and  pride 

From  earth  and  memory,  and  their  high  lords 
<    Forgotten  save  in  infamy,  rewards 
'Will  come  to  thee,  O,  bard,  such  as  abide 
All. time  and  change,  and  know  not  dull  decay 
While  song  and  beauty  hold  a  sacred  place 
In  our  short  lives,  and  those  who  trace 
Thy  work  transcendent  in  a  distant  day. 


Tasso,  on  thy  laureate  circled  brow, 

The  crown  still  blooming  in  its  loveliness 

With  fame's  sweet  flowers,  thy  wrongs  would  now 

redress — 

The  crown  which  none  had  worn  through  years  till 
now, 


1 68  OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

Since  Petrarch's  song  rang  in  the  hearts  of.  Italy ; 
And  while  the  jewels  of  Jiet  kingly  crown 
Grow  dim  in  ages  hence,  brighter  renown 

Thy  simple  wreath  will  gain,  and  immortality. 

'Twas  thy  sad  lot  to  love  beyond  thy  reach, 

.     And  waste  away  the  years  in  hopeless  passion  ; 

But  not  because  she  shunned  thee  ;  thou  hadst  won 
Her  deep  regard ;  her  rank  had  caused  the  breach, 
And  pride,  such  as  high  state  to  women  gives, 
And  battles  with  her  love  till  it  lies  conquer'd  ; — 
Thy  softest  pleadings  heeded  not  or  heard, 
But  barred  her  breast  'gainst  thee  where  nature  strives. 

The  pilgrim  to  great  genius'  reverenced  shrine 
When  straying  in  the  land  thy  glory  famed, — 
Thy  fate  dishonored,  yet  its  pride  has  claimed — 

His  tears  with  pity's  off 'ring  will  resign  ; 

And  feeling  thy  deep  suffering,  cruel  shame,' 
Will  then  exclaim  :  O,  thou  great  Tasso  !  led 
By  true  ambition,  the  unhonored  dead 

Have  sought  in  vain  to  blight  thy  growing  fame. 


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